Occasionally the top of a roller would slop in through a port, and ripple across the sloping deck like a stream of shining silver.
Reclining on the locker which ran round the cabin skylight lay Jack Derringer, pipe in mouth, lazily watching his beloved stars.
Forward the Kanaka Tari could be seen flitting backwards and forwards across the shaft of light from the galley, busily engaged in gathering fuel from the fore 'tween-decks.
Presently he went forward, and lifting the hatch of the forepeak, looked down into the gloom, where lay the poor madman.
As he bent over the hatch a heavy volume of smoke poured forth, enveloping his face and causing him to cough.
Hastily withdrawing his head he rushed aft, crying in his strange, broken English:
"Shippe burn! shippe burn! Lobu settee fire shippe!"
Up jumped Jack, quick to think and quick to act.
"Leave the wheel, Broncho, there's not enough wind to hurt. You, Jim and Tari, get the quarter-deck buckets forrard. Follow me, Broncho—sail-locker, spare t'gallants'l."
Short and sharp came the words, and Jack was gone.