shouting to us, and when my ears caught a word I recognized him. It was
the big Maori who had been instructing the Fijian earlier in the
afternoon.

I told Holman, and he looked at Toni, but Toni's face was blank. For
some reason or other he wished to ignore his instructor who was
screaming on the end of the wharf.

"He must be mad," muttered Holman. "The darned fool thinks we--Listen!"

A land breeze brought the last line of the chant to our ears as we
neared _The Waif_, and the words seemed to stir me curiously as they
swirled around us. I had a desire to memorize the chant, and even after
we had got out of range of the high-powered voice of the singer I found
myself murmuring over and over again the words:

"That's the way to heaven out
Of Black Fernando's hell."

[Illustration]



CHAPTER II

THE PROFESSOR'S DAUGHTERS

In the old days, when slave-carrying was a game followed by gentlemen
with nerve, the officer with the best nose on board the man-o'-war that
overhauled a suspected slave carrier was always sent aboard to make an