On Saturday, the twenty-third of March, the whole party embarked on board the ocean steamer _Asia_, then at anchor in the Mersey, and bound to sail for New York at twelve, noon, of that day. There was the usual crowd on deck; with the usual partings; friends departing, and friends who had come to send them off; some grave, some cheerful, some merry, some despondent. At length this was all interrupted by the shout of the first mate from the poop: “All ashore!” And the last hurried good-bys were spoken, and the last embraces given, and the friends of the voyagers hastened over the gang plank to the steam tender which had brought them to the ship. Then the farewell gun was fired, and the _Asia_ stood out to sea—her passengers standing in lines to gaze on the receding land. Mr. Force and his party were walking up and down the deck of the steamer, when they saw coming from the opposite direction a figure so remarkable that it would at once have attracted attention anywhere. It was the tall, stout figure of an old man, with a fresh, red face, clear blue eyes, a white mustache, and a commanding presence. He wore the uniform of an American skipper, with its flat, gold-rimmed cap. As he approached Mr. Force stared, and then started and held out his hand, exclaiming: “Capt. Grandiere! You here! Why, where did you drop from, and where is Roland Bayard?” The gruff old sailor stopped to lift his cap to the ladies, and to shake hands all around, and to be introduced to the Earl of Enderby, and to shake hands with him, before he replied to Mr. Force’s first question: “My ship, the _Kitty_, was taken by that infernal pirate, the _Argente_. I was set ashore, alone, on the English coast. I had some correspondents at Liverpool, who supplied me with funds to return home. That is all.” “But—where is Roland Bayard?” “With the pirates.” CHAPTER VII AN OLD SALT “Among the pirates, Capt. Grandiere? Roland Bayard among the pirates?” exclaimed Mr. Force, while Mrs. Force closed her lips with a sudden motion and grew a shade paler. Rosemary began to tremble, and the other young girls to look anxious. “Come aft! Let us find seats somewhere where we will not be spied or overhauled, and I will tell you all about it,” said the old skipper, moving down toward the stern, where the deck was almost deserted by the other passengers, who were all gathered forward, leaning over the bulwarks and taking a last look at the receding shores of England. They found seats on the wooden benches, and sat down. The old skipper took off his cap and wiped his large, red face and close-cropped gray head, and then said: