On a bright, sunshiny morning a few days later, with a light breeze just the harbor, the brig with her sails laid back and her head seaward was drifting with the tide perhaps a mile and a quarter off shore between Honolulu and Diamond Head. Captain Winchester had set out for the city in a whale boat. Those of the sailors left aboard were idling forward. Mr. Landers, the mate, sat by the skylight on the poop, reading a magazine. Second Mate Gabriel and the cooper were busy at the cooper's bench in the waist. No one else was on deck and I resolved to attempt again to escape. The situation seemed made to order.  
In the warm weather of the tropics, I had often seen old man Landers, when there was nothing doing on deck, sit and read by the hour without ever looking up. I hoped that this morning his magazine would prove of absorbing interest. Gabriel and the cooper were intent upon their work. As for the sailors, I told them I was going to try to swim and if I were discovered and they had to lower for me, I asked them to hurry as little as possible so I might have every chance to get away.
 
For my adventure I wore a blue shirt, dungaree trousers, and my blue cap. I tied my shoes together with a rope , which I slipped baldric-fashion over my shoulder. In the belt at my waist I carried a sailor's sheath knife. With this I had a foolish idea that I might defend myself against sharks. Without attracting attention, I slipped over the bow, climbed down by the bob-stays, and let myself into the sea. I let myself wash silently astern past the ship's side and struck out for shore, swimming on my side without splash or noise, and looking back to watch developments aboard.
 
I am convinced to this day that if I had not been in the water, old Landers would have kept his nose in that magazine for an hour or so and drowsed and nodded over it as I had seen him do dozens of times before. Either my good angel, fearful of the sharks, or my evil genius, upon me, must have the old fellow in the . At any rate, he rose from his chair and stepped to the taff-rail with a pair of in his hand. He placed the glasses to his eyes and toward the to see whether or not the captain had reached shore. I don't know whether he saw the captain or not, but he saw me.
 
"Who's that overboard?" he shouted.
 
I did not answer. Then he recognized me.
 
"Hey, you," he cried, calling me by name, "come back here."
 
I kept on swimming.
 
"Lay aft here, a boat's crew," Mr. Landers sang out.
 
Gabriel and the cooper ran to the quarter-deck and stared at me. The sailors came lounging aft along the rail. Mr. Landers and Gabriel threw the boat's falls from the davit posts. The sailors strung out across the deck to lower the boat.
 
"Lower away," shouted Mr. Landers.
 
One end of the boat went down rapidly. The other end jerked and lurched and seemed to remain almost . I wondered whether my shipmates were purposely. Mr. Landers and Gabriel sprang among them, brushed them aside and lowered the boat themselves. A crew climbed down the brig's side into the boat. Old Gabriel went as boatheader. In a jiffy the sweeps were shot into place, the boat was shoved off, and the chase was on.
 
All this had taken time. As the ship was drifting one way and I was quartering off in an almost opposite direction, I must have been nearly a half mile from the when Gabriel started to run me down.
 
I swam on my side with a long, strong stroke that fast swimmers used to fancy before the Australian crawl came into . I was swimming as I never in my life swam before—swimming for liberty. All my hope and heart, as well as all my strength, lay in every stroke. The clear, warm salt water creamed about my head and sometimes over it. I was making time. Swimming on my side, I could see everything that was happening behind me. As the boat came after me I noticed there was but a slight of white water about the . Plainly it was not making great speed.
 
"Pull away, my boys. We ketch dat feller," sang out Gabriel.
 
Wilson at the midship "caught a " and tumbled over , his feet kicking in the air. Wilson was a good oarsman. He was my friend. A hundred yards more and Walker at the tub oar did the same. He also was my friend.
 
The boys were doing their best to help me—to give me a chance. I knew it. Gabriel knew it, too. The old negro recognized the crisis. I could not hear what he said or see all that he did, but the boys told me about it afterwards. It must have been a pretty bit of .
 
Suddenly Gabriel half rose from his seat and peered anxiously ahead.
 
"My God!" he cried, "dat poor feller, he drown. Pull, my boys. Oh, good God!"
 
The sailors at the sweeps had their backs to me. It was a good long swim and the water was full of sharks. It was not difficult to make them believe that I was on tragedy.
 
"Dere he go down!" Gabriel's voice was broken and . "He t'row his hands up. He de water. I cain't see him. Oh, dat poor feller! No, dere he come up again—oh, good Lord! Pull away, my boys, pull away. We save him yet."
 
Surely the stage lost a star when Gabriel became a whaler. The old was good—he was great. His acting carried conviction. The sailors believed I was drowning. They leaned upon their with a will. The sweeps bent beneath the powerful strokes. The boat jumped through the water. I the increased speed by the white spray that began to stand at the bow. Gabriel helped along the speed by forward lurches of his body, pushing at the same time upon the stroke oar. All the while he kept shouting:
 
"We save him yet, dat poor feller! Pull away, my boys."
 
The boat came up rapidly. In a little while it was almost upon me. I tried to it by off at right angles. It was no use—Gabriel his tiller and the boat c............