Once more, Ichabod Jones burned midnight oil. In the early evening he brought his easy chair out in front, where he could see the glistening waters and watch the moon climb high. He smoked pipeful after pipeful of his strong tobacco. Again he made rings, and thought, and wondered. It was after ten before he arose and went into the shack, lighted his oil lamp, laid out his paper and pencil, and proceeded to add more to the record that he had started. No doubt, after his long reverie in the moonlight, he had come to the conclusion that the fact of his being kissed by ten young women and having one more making eyes at him in one day, the first of his reformation, was of moment enough to be recorded. That night, as Ichabod finished his entry in the diary and leaned far back in his chair with chest expanded, his chin with its whift of beard thrown out at an angle of forty-five degrees, he reminded one of a cartoon of Uncle Sam when showing a self-satisfied air. The picture he portrayed at least conveyed the impression that he was monarch of all he surveyed and even dared once again to place his battle flag of conquest on the mainland of Cartaret County. As he put away his writing materials and prepared to retire to his lonely bunk, he again talked aloud. "It looks to me, by cracky, as if things was a-movin' jest a leetle too rapid fer a starter. It reminds me right smart o' a hoss race I saw at the fish and oyster fair, at New Bern, a spell back. The animal that I cal'lated would win, he jest started off like a steam engine, an' when he got half way around he was clean ahead o' the bunch. But by the time he reached the home-stretch, he was a swettin' like a mad bull an' puffin' like a grampus--an' every other hoss got in fust. Here I am now, kissed by ten o' the prettiest gals in Beaufort jest as the sun is a-settin' on my first day o' new manhood. I'm startin' too almighty fast. If I don't tame down I'll lose out on the home-stretch. I opine Sara didn't like the idea o' that kissin' business. I was particular to hold my face straight out where she could see it an' not let my lips tech nary one o' 'em. But I guess it would be safer to go down an' tell Sara how partic'lar I was, an' how I wanted to tell 'em to stop, but didn't dar'st not to be polite." As Captain Ichabod lay in his bunk before falling asleep, he allowed his mind to dwell upon more serious things. He thought of the wireless message. What had become of the strange man, of the woman, and of his rooster, Shrimp? He wondered that there were no reports of their passing other boats. His heart was sore for that poor woman who had lain so long unconscious upon his bed. His interest in her was vital, for he had saved her life. What could the man mean by thus secretly hurrying away? Ichabod had asked himself this question many times. Now he knew beyond peradventure of doubt that the fellow was a criminal, a refugee from justice, with a young woman of gentle birth in his power.