Next morning they were up early in order to greet Tim, who duly arrived in a state of great excitement. He was delighted to be once more on the war-path, especially as he was to go through the campaign in the company of his old school-fellows. The business of putting his luggage on board took but little time, as Tim did not believe in special correspondents travelling with much impedimenta. "You could have brought more luggage, if you had liked," said Philip, when they inspected Tim's modest kit. "More! Haven't I got all I want," retorted Tim, indignantly. "What would I be stuffing up the boat with rags for. A tooth-brush and a clean collar is all I require." "Hardly, if this is going to be a lengthy campaign," replied Philip, dryly. "I expect, before the end of the voyage, you'll be wearing Peter's clothes." Peter was so small, and Tim so large, that the idea struck the latter as wonderfully ludicrous, and he sat down to laugh which he continued to do until the screw began to beat the water. Then he went on deck to superintend the departure. In due time they arrived at Plymouth without accident, where they found Peter waiting with as much luggage as a bride would take on her honeymoon. It proved to be mostly articles for capturing butterflies, and cases for preserving them much to the disgust of Philip, who hated his yacht to be overloaded with such _débris_. With that painful candour which prevailed between them, he told Peter that he would only take half; but the meek doctor waxed indignant, and refused to go without all these, what he called, "necessaries." So, in the end, Philip had to give in. Then _The Bohemian_ turned her prow westward, and dipping her nose in the salt brine, followed in the track of Columbus. CHAPTER IV. IN THE TRACK OF COLUMBUS. Spread sails, out oars, the galley's beak Points westward where the sunset dies. The fabled land of gold we seek, Which glows beneath the tropic skies,-- A jewelled land of Paradise; The waters round our prow are curled, White foam bells streak their turquoise blue, We leave behind the ancient world, To seek the new. Spread sails, out oars, a path of gold Streams from the sinking sun at eve, As those bold mariners of old, Again romances wild we weave, Of splendours we would fain believe; Yon path leads on to fairyland, Which glows within the sunset's heart, We anguish for that magic strand, And so depart.