Augusta shook her head sadly.

"Then there is an end of it!" groaned Mr. Meeson. "Eustace must lose the
money. Poor lad! poor lad! I have behaved very badly to him."

Augusta stood still, racking her brain for some expedient, for she was
determined that Eustace Meeson should not lose the chance of that
colossal fortune if she could help it. It was but a poor chance at the
best, for Mr. Meeson might not be dying, after all. And if he did die, it
was probable that his fate would be their fate also, and no record would
remain of them or of Mr. Meeson's testamentary wishes. As things looked
at present, there was every prospect of their all perishing miserably on
that desolate shore.

Just then the sailor Bill, who had been up to the flagstaff on the rock
on the chance of catching sight of some passing vessel, came walking
past. His flannel shirt-sleeves were rolled up to the elbows of his
brawny arms, and as he stopped to speak to Augusta she noticed something
that made her start, and gave her an idea.

"There ain't nothing to be seen," said the man, roughly; "and it is my
belief that there won't be neither. Here we are, and here we stops till
we dies and rots."

"Ah, I hope not," said Augusta. "By-the-way, Mr. Bill, will you let me
look at the tattoo on your arm?"

"Certainly, Miss," said Bill, with alacrity, holding his great arm within
an inch of her nose. It was covered with various tattoos: flags, ships,
and what not, in the middle of which, written in small letters along the