A hundred miles they sailed in the longboat and, at last, the second island was sighted. They landed and found, to their consternation and surprise, that it, too, was uninhabited. The former residents had grown tired of their isolation and, a trading vessel having touched there, had seized the opportunity to depart for Tahiti. Their houses were empty, their cattle, sheep, goats, and fowl roamed wild in the woods, and the fruit was rotting on the trees. In its way the little island was an Eyeless Eden, flowing with milk and honey; but to Captain Nat, a conscientious skipper with responsibilities to his owners, it was a prison from which he determined to escape. Then, as if to make escape impossible, a sudden gale came up and the longboat was smashed by the surf. “I guess that settles it,” ruefully observed the second mate, “another Cape Codder, from Hyannis. Cal'late we'll stay here for a spell now, hey, Cap'n.” “For a spell, yes,” replied Nat. “We'll stay here until we get another craft to set sail in, and no longer.” “Another craft? ANOTHER one? Where in time you goin' to get her?” “Build her,” said Captain Nat cheerfully. Then, pointing to the row of empty houses and the little deserted church, he added, “There's timber and nails--yes, and cloth, such as 'tis. If I can't build a boat out of them I'll agree to eat the whole settlement.” He did not have to eat it, for the boat was built. It took them six months to build her, and she was a curious-looking vessel when done, but, as the skipper said, “She may not be a clipper, but she'll sail anywhere, if you give her time enough.” He had been the guiding spirit of the whole enterprise, planning it, laying the keel, burning buildings, to obtain nails and iron, hewing trees for the largest beams, showing them how to spin ropes from cocoa-nut fiber, improvising sails from the longboat's canvas pieced out with blankets and odd bits of cloth from the abandoned houses. Even a strip of carpet from the church floor went into the making of those sails. At last she was done, but Nat was not satisfied. “I never commanded a ship where I couldn't h'ist Yankee colors,” he said, “and, by the everlastin'! I won't now. We've got to have a flag.” So, from an old pair of blue overalls, a white cotton shirt, and the red hangings of the church pulpit, he made a flag and hoisted it to the truck of his queer command. They provisioned her, gave her a liberal supply of fresh water, and, one morning, she passed through the opening of the lagoon out to the deep blue of the Pacific. And, hidden in her captain's stateroom under the head of his bunk, was the ten thousand dollars in gold. For Nat had sworn to himself, by “the everlasting” and other oaths, to deliver that money to his New York owners safe and, necessary expenses deducted of course, untouched.