The sergeant-major and I accompanied him to the spot, and there we saw a ghastly sight. The unfortunate policeman lay dead, with his carotid artery severed, while his murderer was sprawled on his face about a couple of yards away, also dead, half the back of his head blown away. The sergeant-major turned the man over on to his back, and there, staring at us, was the Booghis from whom I had got the "male" kris a couple of years before; there was no mistaking the curious scar right across one side of his face. Stooping, the sergeant-major picked up a kris which was lying close to the man's hand. He eyed it intently for a moment, wiped the blood off, and then, taking the blade between his thumb and forefinger, he handed me the hilt. "The 'female' kris, Tuan," he said, politely. "Jack Ashore." +By Albert E. Craft+. The airy assurance with which "Jack Ashore" gets into--and out of--serious scrapes has become almost proverbial. This story describes the adventures which befell a party of British seamen who went for a ramble in a Chilian port. It was in the early months of 1896, and I was an able seaman on board the ship _Micronesia_, of Liverpool, then lying in the port of Antofagasta, Chile, where we were discharging a cargo of coals loaded at Newcastle, New South Wales. A quarter of a mile away was the French barque, _La Provence_, loading a cargo of saltpetre for Havre. [Illustration: THE AUTHOR, MR. A. E. CRAFT. _From a Photograph._] Amongst our sailors was a Frenchman, and he, being one of our boat's crew, had made the acquaintance of his countrymen on board the other ship in his various trips, it being the custom of the captains then in port to call upon each other and all to go ashore in the one boat. Thus they benefited by having the full complement of their crew on board to work cargo--which they had to do in those days, except on the occasion when their particular boat had to act as ferry. We had been there something like eight or ten days when part of the crew of the French ship got the usual twenty-four hours' liberty in which to go ashore and enjoy themselves. Liberty day! The one bright day in the weary monotony of a long sailing-ship voyage--the one day in which, with a month's pay in his pocket, Jack is as good as his master, when he may eat what he likes, drink what he likes, do what he likes, so long as he turns up when the boatswain musters the hands to work after the all-too-short holiday. So, with the jingling coins burning holes in their pockets, and their hearts as light as school-boys', they pushed off from their ship. And we, knowing where they were going, stared moodily across the bay, longing to be with them. A diversion occurred, however, when we saw the boat's head swing in our direction, and a few minutes later range alongside our ship.