"I'd like to have a picter of you with your mouth shet," remarked Pete. "It's open even when you are asleep." He dodged just in time to avoid a heavy shoe flung from Jake's ready hand that crashed against the wall. "Don't do that agin," he warned, a red light showing in his eyes. "I'll larn you boys that I ain't as old as I looks to be." Jake laughed harshly. "You mustn't keep your own mouth open so wide, Pop, cause you'll have to swallow your own words if you do." "I guess I'll never git choked," replied Pete, truculently. "Kin you tell me what the skipper means snooping down this coast with no lights showing when it's plumb dark? We are liable to sink ourselves or Californey all of a suddint." "Why don't you ask the Cap'n what he is up to?" inquired Cales, "that is, if you want some real useful information, Pop." Pop raised himself up and glared at the speaker. "I ain't done living," he replied. "We are navigating pretty careful," remarked Jake. "You can hardly feel the Sea Eagle moving." "Running for the cove, I reckon," suggested Cales, "I'm mighty pleased not to be the man at the wheel. Well, I'm goin' to turn in for a snooze." In a brief time the two men were snoring loudly, while old Pete sat smoking his pipe, as stolid as a wooden Indian and the forecastle was fogged with the smoke, through which the swinging lantern shone dimly. The air is stifling so let us go up on deck where we can breathe the salt ozone and incidentally get acquainted with Captain Bill Broom, who is to occupy such a prominent place in this narrative. He is well worth meeting, not only as the opponent of our old friend, Jim Darlington, but because of his own unworthy but interesting character. In those days Skipper Bill Broom was known all up and down the coast and beyond. His fame, such as it was, comes down even to this recent day. On deck it is muffling dark, with the stars obscured in some dim way by mist or fog. There is a breeze blowing steadily from the broad wastes of the ocean. The bulk of the California coast looms dimly on the port bow. Not more than a half mile distant can be seen the white rushing forward of the breakers towards the rocky coast. Dangerous work this, navigating the Sea Eagle through the thick gloom of the night but the old man knew his business. He was on the bridge pacing back and forth like some strange animal and giving hoarse directions to the man at the wheel. He knew every inch of that coast, the sunken reefs and dangerous rocks. "Starboard your helm," he growled. The sailor spun the wheel obediently. And the captain resumed his pacing back and forth upon the bridge. Not much could be seen of him, except that he was a powerful man, with a peculiar crouching stoop, as if he and the sea were engaged in a mysterious game. One striving to get a dangerous death-hold upon the other, both wary and using unceasing watchfulness.