Jack took the glasses out of their case and swept the whole of the visible coast, but for some time without result; there was nothing under either sail or steam to be seen in any direction. At length, however, when the yacht had arrived within about two miles of Piedras Point, a small pirogue under sail suddenly shot out from behind the point, heading to the southward close-hauled; she carried a sprit-mainsail and a jib, and at the top end of the sprit there fluttered a diminutive replica of the red-and-yellow flag which was flying from the fore truck of the yacht. "Ah!" exclaimed Jack, as he brought his glasses to bear upon the boat; "here comes your pilot, Phil, at last, and he is flying the `all right' signal, so I suppose we may take it for granted that the coast is clear." "Yes, I see him," answered Milsom. "Keep her away a couple of points, Quartermaster, and give that boat a chance to fetch us. She is coming alongside. Masthead there. Keep a very bright lookout, my man, for sunken rocks; there are plenty of them to be found here if they are looked for." "Ay, ay, sir!" answered the man. "We have passed a few already; but I didn't say anything, because we weren't headin' so as to hit 'em." Ten minutes later the pirogue was close at hand, and Milsom rang down the signal to "Stop". The pirogue was a very quaint-looking craft, of about twenty feet in length by some five feet beam, formed out of a solid log of wood which had been roughly trimmed with an axe to form the bottom portion of her, with a couple of planks above to form her top sides. Although the trade wind was blowing quite fresh, this queer- looking craft carried no ballast, properly so-called; but to prevent her from capsizing a couple of negroes stood on her weather gunwale, holding on to ropes attached to her masthead, and leaning back almost horizontally out over the water. A third negro, attired in a picturesquely dirty shirt, and trousers rolled up above his knees, and with a most shockingly dilapidated straw hat on his head, steered the little craft by means of a broad-bladed paddle laid out over the lee quarter. Primitive, however, as the craft was in appearance, she came through the water at a most astonishing rate, and presently shot up alongside under the lee of the yacht, the two negroes who acted as ballast smartly recovering themselves and springing inboard as she did so. A rope's end was thrown down into her, and the picturesque individual who had been steering her nimbly climbed up the side of the yacht and stepped on deck, where he was met by Don Hermoso. "Buenos dias, Senor!" exclaimed the fellow, doffing his ragged head- covering with the flourish and grace of a grandee. "Cuba is ready!" (This was the password that was to prove the _bona fides_ of the man.) "And we also are ready," answered Don Hermoso. "Is the coast clear?"