But at that moment there was a sharp oath from the mate on deck and a chorus of savage cries. A revolver went off three times, and then was heard a loud splash. Captain Hansen had sprung up the companionway on the instant, and Bertie's eyes had been fascinated by a glimpse of him drawing his revolver as he sprang. Bertie went up more circumspectly, hesitating before he put his head above the companionway slide. But nothing happened. The mate was shaking with excitement, his revolver in his hand. Once he startled, and half-jumped around, as if danger threatened his back. “One of the natives fell overboard,” he was saying, in a queer tense voice. “He couldn't swim.” “Who was it?” the skipper demanded. “Auiki,” was the answer. “But I say, you know, I heard shots,” Bertie said, in trembling eagerness, for he scented adventure, and adventure that was happily over with. The mate whirled upon him, snarling: “It's a damned lie. There ain't been a shot fired. The nigger fell overboard.” Captain Hansen regarded Bertie with unblinking, lack-luster eyes. “I--I thought--” Bertie was beginning. “Shots?” said Captain Hansen, dreamily. “Shots? Did you hear any shots, Mr. Jacobs?” “Not a shot,” replied Mr. Jacobs. The skipper looked at his guest triumphantly, and said: “Evidently an accident. Let us go down, Mr. Arkwright, and finish dinner.” Bertie slept that night in the captain's cabin, a tiny stateroom off the main cabin. The for'ard bulkhead was decorated with a stand of rifles. Over the bunk were three more rifles. Under the bunk was a big drawer, which, when he pulled it out, he found filled with ammunition, dynamite, and several boxes of detonators. He elected to take the settee on the opposite side. Lying conspicuously on the small table, was the Arla's log. Bertie did not know that it had been especially prepared for the occasion by Captain Malu, and he read therein how on September 21, two boat's crew had fallen overboard and been drowned. Bertie read between the lines and knew better. He read how the Arla's whale boat had been bushwhacked at Su'u and had lost three men; of how the skipper discovered the cook stewing human flesh on the galley fire--flesh purchased by the boat's crew ashore in Fui; of how an accidental discharge of dynamite, while signaling, had killed another boat's crew; of night attacks; ports fled from between the dawns; attacks by bushmen in mangrove swamps and by fleets of salt-water men in the larger passages. One item that occurred with monotonous frequency was death by dysentery. He noticed with alarm that two white men had so died--guests, like himself, on the Arla. “I say, you know,” Bertie said next day to Captain Hansen. “I've been glancing through your log.” The skipper displayed quick vexation that the log had been left lying about. “And all that dysentery, you know, that's all rot, just like the accidental drownings,” Bertie continued. “What does dysentery really stand for?”