evergreen old salt, still qualified (if he could anywhere have found
an owner unacquainted with his story) to adorn another quarter-deck and
lose another ship.

"She has American lines, anyway," said the astute Scots engineer of the
gin-mill; "it's my belief she's a yacht."

"That's it," said the old salt, "a yacht! look at her davits, and the
boat over the stern."

"A yacht in your eye!" said a Glasgow voice. "Look at her red ensign! A
yacht! not much she isn't!"

"You can close the store, anyway, Tom," observed a gentlemanly German.
"Bon jour, mon Prince!" he added, as a dark, intelligent native cantered
by on a neat chestnut. "Vous allez boire un verre de biere?"

But Prince Stanilas Moanatini, the only reasonably busy human creature
on the island, was riding hot-spur to view this morning's landslip on
the mountain road: the sun already visibly declined; night was imminent;
and if he would avoid the perils of darkness and precipice, and the
fear of the dead, the haunters of the jungle, he must for once decline
a hospitable invitation. Even had he been minded to alight, it presently
appeared there would be difficulty as to the refreshment offered.

"Beer!" cried the Glasgow voice. "No such a thing; I tell you there's
only eight bottles in the club! Here's the first time I've seen British
colours in this port! and the man that sails under them has got to drink
that beer."