Twenty-eight days out of Sydney, on Christmas eve, they fetched up to the entrance of the lagoon, and plied all that night outside, keeping their position by the lights of fishers on the reef and the outlines of the palms against the cloudy sky. With the break of day, the schooner was hove to, and the signal for a pilot shown. But it was plain her lights must have been observed in the darkness by the native fishermen, and word carried to the settlement, for a boat was already under weigh. She came towards them across the lagoon under a great press of sail, lying dangerously down, so that at times, in the heavier puffs, they thought she would turn turtle; covered the distance in fine style, luffed up smartly alongside, and emitted a haggard looking white man in pyjamas. “Good-mornin', Cap'n,” said he, when he had made good his entrance. “I was taking you for a Fiji man-of-war, what with your flush decks and them spars. Well, gen'lemen all, here's wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,” he added, and lurched against a stay. “Why, you're never the pilot?” exclaimed Wicks, studying him with a profound disfavour. “You've never taken a ship in--don't tell me!” “Well, I should guess I have,” returned the pilot. “I'm Captain Dobbs, I am; and when I take charge, the captain of that ship can go below and shave.” “But, man alive! you're drunk, man!” cried the captain. “Drunk!” repeated Dobbs. “You can't have seen much life if you call me drunk. I'm only just beginning. Come night, I won't say; I guess I'll be properly full by then. But now I'm the soberest man in all Big Muggin.” “It won't do,” retorted Wicks. “Not for Joseph, sir. I can't have you piling up my schooner.” “All right,” said Dobbs, “lay and rot where you are, or take and go in and pile her up for yourself like the captain of the Leslie. That's business, I guess; grudged me twenty dollars' pilotage, and lost twenty thousand in trade and a brand new schooner; ripped the keel right off of her, and she went down in the inside of four minutes, and lies in twenty fathom, trade and all.” “What's all this?” cried Wicks. “Trade? What vessel was this Leslie, anyhow?” “Consigned to Cohen and Co., from 'Frisco,” returned the pilot, “and badly wanted. There's a barque inside filling up for Hamburg--you see her spars over there; and there's two more ships due, all the way from Germany, one in two months, they say, and one in three; Cohen and Co.'s agent (that's Mr. Topelius) has taken and lain down with the jaundice on the strength of it. I guess most people would, in his shoes; no trade, no copra, and twenty hundred ton of shipping due. If you've any copra on board, cap'n, here's your chance. Topelius will buy, gold down, and give three cents. It's all found money to him, the way it is, whatever he pays for it. And that's what come of going back on the pilot.”