Three years passed, and then, one day, a Hawaiian trading schooner swept round the north end of the island, her white sails bellying out to the lusty trades. A boat was lowered and pulled ashore, and the first man that jumped out of her on to the beach was Jim Swain.
Half-way between his father's house and the beach the old man met him.
“Well, I be darned! Why, Jim, what hez brought you back?”
“Got tired of it, dad,” he answered, in his quiet way, but without meeting his father's eye. And then he added, “The fac' is, dad, I bolted from the Saginaw at Valparaiso. Now, don' ask me no more 'bout it.”
“Right you are, my boy,” said the trader, placidly; “but you'll have to get out o' the way if another cruiser comes along. But that isn't likely to happen for many a year. Come along and see Em. She'll jes' go dancin' mad when she sees you.”
For the next twelve months the father and daughter lived at Utiroa, and Jim voyaged to and fro among the islands of the group, returning every few months, and again sailing away on a fresh cruise; but never once had the old man asked him any further questions as to his reasons for deserting from the Saginaw. But Em, gentle-hearted Em, knew.
One bright morning there came in sight a lofty-sparred ship, with snow-white canvas, sailing at a distance of two miles from the shore along the reef, from the south end of the island, and Ema Swain rousing her brother from his mid-day slumber, with terror in her eyes, pointed seaward.
Taking his father's glass from the bracket on the wall in the sitting-room, the half-caste walked out of the house to a spot where he could obtain a clear view of the ship. For a minute or so he gazed steadily, then lowered the glass.
“A man-o'-war, Em, right enough; but I don' think she's an American. I'll wait a bit until she gets closer.”