“_The Corsaire_, June 12th, 18--. This brig was dismasted in a hurricane ten days since. Three of us survive. At the time of our destruction our latitude was 8° south, and longitude 81° 10´ east. Should this missive fall into the hands of any master or mate of a ship he is implored in the name of God and of the Holy Virgin to search for and to succor us. He will be richly.” * * * “Last words illegible,” said the young fellow, holding the paper close to his nose. “Humph!” exclaimed Captain Bow. He hummed over the latitude and longitude, and addressing the mate said, “The wreck should not be far off, Mr. Pike.” “Oh, Captain, _will_ you search for the poor, poor creatures?” cried one of the younger of the married ladies. “Twelfth of June the date is, hey?” said the captain, “and this is the eighteenth. In six days the deluge, madam--at sea. Well, we shall keep a bright look-out, I promise you. D’ye want to keep the bird, Mr. Catesby?” “No,” said I, “the box will suffice as a memorial.” “Then, Mr. Pike, let it be hove overboard,” said the captain. “Strike up ‘_Tom Bowling_’ for its interment,” cried the little Irish colonel, “‘_Faithful below he did his duty_,’ you know. Nearly knocked poor Catesby overboard, though. What is it, a Booby?” “How _can_ ye be so rude, Desmond?” said his wife. “‘Tis the bird I mane, my love,” he answered. The girls would not let it be hove overboard for a good bit. They hung over the snow-white creature caressing its delicate down and strong feathers with fingers whose jewels glittered upon the plumage like raindrops in moonlight. However, ere long the music started anew. The people that still hovered about the bird drew off, and the mate sneaking the noble creature to the side quietly let it fall. V.