After following the street for a time, we concluded that our presence would be noted by the natives, and we turned into a broad, poorly lighted avenue, whose pavement shone white in the darkness. Here the houses seemed of the better class, and, as the avenue stretched away back inland to the southward, we decided to get across to the other side of the island, and trust to getting a sponger or fisherman to take us to some of the deserted cays until we could make good our escape.

“If you didn’t leave such a confounded trail,” said Tim, “the dogs couldn’t follow us. But you must be mighty nigh as smelly as a nigger, for they never even slowed down after they hit it fair.”

I was about to make a rather warm retort to this remark, but at that instant the door of a large house across the street opened, and a boy appeared upon the threshold. He was joined instantly by a large 129woman, whose strong face in profile showed plainly against the light inside.

Tim halted and seized my arm. Then he swore softly, and stood gazing at them while they came out into the street. The door was closed with a bang by the woman, but not before I had time to note her figure. She was huge. Almost as tall as myself, and her shoulders were those of a prize-fighter.

“Georgie, you dear,” she said, “if you run off this time, you’ll be sorry.” And her voice was peculiarly gentle and soft, almost absurdly so for a person of her size. She locked the door, and they came toward us until we started to turn aside to pass.

“Mary!” said Tim, in a low tone.

The woman stopped as if turned to stone.

“Who is it?” she asked, sweetly, and I saw her face clearly as she looked full at me. She was handsome. It was dark, but her eyes shone, and I could see the firm sweep of her chin and the well-cut nose and lips. She was not young, but she had all the colour and vigour of a girl.

“It’s me,” said Tim, shortly.

The next instant the boy’s stick fell across his shoulders with a loud whack.

“Clear out, you rascal,” he said. “How dare you speak to a lady! Oh, it’s you, is it--”

130In an instant the boy’s arms were around Tim’s neck, and he was hugging him closely.

“Oh, papa, papa!” he was crying, while the woman looked on silently.

In a moment Tim put him aside and stood before his wife. The scene was strange, and, as I stood by, gazing at them, I thought of what the little sailor had told me.

Tim advanced and held out his hand. The woman sprang forward and seized it, pressing it to her lips and falling upon her knees.

“Forgive me,” she said.

But the sailor could not or would not answer. He stood looking down at her a long time.

“Oh, Tim, Tim!” she pleaded, gazing up at him.

I was somewhat disturbed at the scene, for there were people abroad on the streets, and here was a fine, large woman, as good-looking as one would care to see, kneeling before a pitiful-looking sailor, who was as ragged and dirty looking as a forlorn slave. If we were to make good an escape from the barque, it was anything but the proper thing to make a scene in the town streets.

“He is aboard the barque,” said Tim, slowly. “Will you give him up and come back to me if I get away?”

I knew he was speaking of Renshaw.

“Yes, yes,” moaned the woman; “only say you’ll 131forgive me, Tim. I’ll try and help you get away. You know I can handle a boat, and can come up to you on the ship if you will let me--”

He placed his hand upon her head and bade her rise. As he did so, two men came from the shadow of the houses across the street, and I immediately recognized Renshaw, followed by the bos’n, who came respectfully a few feet behind him. Old Richards drew up alongside his master, and stood ready for further orders.

“Get back to your boat, sir,” said Renshaw, addressing Tim.

The little sai............