“Remember when ’e told us to walk in single file for fear o’ bears? ‘Remember, Pye, when ’e ’opped about in that bog full o’ ferns an’ sniffed an’ said ’e could smell the smoke of ’is uncle’s farm? An’ _all_ the time it was a dirty little out-lyin’ uninhabited island. We walked round it in a day, an’ come back to our boat lyin’ on the beach. A whole day Boy Niven kept us walkin’ in circles lookin’ for ’is uncle’s farm! He said his uncle was compelled by the law of the land to give us a farm!” “Don’t get hot, Pritch. We believed,” said Pyecroft. “He’d been readin’ books. He only did it to get a run ashore an’ have himself talked of. A day an’ a night—eight of us—followin’ Boy Niven round an uninhabited island in the Vancouver archipelago! Then the picket came for us an’ a nice pack o’ idiots we looked!” “What did you get for it?” Hooper asked. “Heavy thunder with continuous lightning for two hours. Thereafter sleet-squalls, a confused sea, and cold, unfriendly weather till conclusion o’ cruise,” said Pyecroft. “It was only what we expected, but what we felt, an’ I assure you, Mr. Hooper, even a sailor-man has a heart to break, was bein’ told that we able seamen an’ promisin’ marines ’ad misled Boy Niven. Yes, we poor back-to-the-landers was supposed to ’ave misled him! He rounded on us, o’ course, an’ got off easy.” “Excep’ for what we gave him in the steerin’-flat when we came out o’ cells. ’Eard anything of ’im lately, Pye?” “Signal Boatswain in the Channel Fleet, I believe—Mr. L.L. Niven is.” “An’ Anstey died o’ fever in Benin,” Pritchard mused. “What come to Moon? Spit-Kid we know about.” “Moon—Moon! Now where did I last…? Oh yes, when I was in the _Palladium_! I met Quigley at Buncrana Station. He told me Moon ’ad run when the _Astrild_ sloop was cruising among the South Seas three years back. He always showed signs o’ bein’ a Mormonastic beggar. Yes, he slipped off quietly an’ they ’adn’t time to chase ’im round the islands even if the navigatin’ officer ’ad been equal to the job.” “Wasn’t he?” said Hooper. “Not so. Accordin’ to Quigley the _Astrild_ spent half her commission rompin’ up the beach like a she-turtle, an’ the other half hatching turtles’ eggs on the top o’ numerous reefs. When she was docked at Sydney her copper looked like Aunt Maria’s washing on the line—an’ her ’midship frames was sprung. The commander swore the dockyard ’ad done it haulin’ the pore thing on to the slips. They _do_ do strange things at sea, Mr. Hooper.” “Ah! I’m not a tax-payer,” said Hooper, and opened a fresh bottle. The Sergeant seemed to be one who had a difficulty in dropping subjects. “How it all comes back, don’t it?” he said. “Why Moon must ’ave ’ad sixteen years’ service before he ran.” “It takes ’em at all ages. Look at—you know,” said Pyecroft. “Who?” I asked. “A service man within eighteen months of his pension, is the party you’re thinkin’ of,” said Pritchard. “A warrant ’oose name begins with a V., isn’t it?”