At four in the afternoon--or eight bells, as I should have expressed it--we went ashore to our home in Polruan. All arrangements had been made for the proper care of the home during our absence, and the remainder of the day was spent in receiving our numerous friends who had come over to bid us farewell and good luck; for, now that the final details had been completed, there was little need to conceal the fact that the "San Philipo" treasure was, as had been conjectured, the object of our voyage. It was nightfall ere we left the house for the last time for a good many months. At Polruan Quay the gig awaited us, and, urged by the powerful strokes of the rowers, the little craft was soon alongside the "Fortuna." In true nautical style the shrill pipe of the bos'n's whistle was heard, and the crew stood to attention as the yacht's officers came on board. Then, directly the gig was hoisted in the davits, the crew returned to their stand-easy on the fo'c'sle, the dancing beams of the anchor light and the glowing bowls of the men's pipes dimly illuminating the shadowy forms of the seamen, as in low tones they discussed the projects of the voyage or talked reminiscently of bygone commissions. "I don't think you will ever be dull during the voyage, Reggie," remarked my father, indicating the knot of men with a wave of his hand. "Amongst that little crew there is to be gathered a wealth of adventure from all the five oceans. And some of their yarns are well worth listening to, I can assure you." At ten o'clock the following morning my father was rowed ashore to obtain the necessary ship's papers from the Custom-house, and half an hour later the "Fortuna" slipped her moorings, and, dipping her ensign as a farewell salute to the Yacht Club, glided swiftly out of Fowey Harbour on her long voyage to the coral islands of the Pacific. Half an hour later the grim outlines of the Gribben were lost to sight in the mist that overhung the land, and, with every sail drawing, the "Fortuna" rapidly drew away from the shores of dear old England. Chapter VIII A RESCUE AT SEA "THERE'S a power o' wind behind that mirk, sir," exclaimed Wilkins, the bos'n, jerking his thumb in the direction of the dark, ill-defined clouds that had shut out the sight of land. "Yes, we are in for a good dusting," replied my father. "The glass is rising far too rapidly. Make everything secure on deck, and put extra lashings on the boats. And also," he added, as the bos'n saluted and began to make his way for'ard, "have the jibs changed before it gets too thick."