odored smoke, tinted with the lights of the setting sun, had risen above
his head in unremitting volumes for the last half hour. There was
infinite contentment in his face, notwithstanding the fact that he had
been meditating on a subject that was not altogether pleasant. But
Captain Plum was, in a way, a philosopher, though one would not have
guessed this fact from his appearance. He was, in the first place, a
young man, not more than eight or nine and twenty, and his strong,
rather thin face, tanned by exposure to the sea, was just now lighted up
by eyes that shone with an unbounded good humor which any instant might
take the form of laughter.

At the present time Captain Plum's vision was confined to one direction,
which carried his gaze out over Lake Michigan. Earlier in the day he had
been able to discern the hazy outline of the Michigan wilderness twenty
miles to the eastward. Straight ahead, shooting up rugged and sharp in
the red light of the day's end, were two islands. Between these, three
miles away, the sloop _Typhoon_ was strongly silhouetted in the fading
glow. Beyond the islands and the sloop there were no other objects for
Captain Plum's eyes to rest upon. So far as he could see there was no
other sail. At his back he was shut in by a dense growth of trees and
creeping vines, and unless a small boat edged close in around the end
of Beaver Island his place of concealment must remain undiscovered. At
least this seemed an assured fact to Captain Plum.

In the security of his position he began to whistle softly as he beat
the bowl of his pipe on his boot-heel to empty it of ashes. Then he drew
a long-barreled revolver from under a coat that he had thrown aside and
examined it carefully to see that the powder and ball were in solid and
that none of the caps was missing. From the same place he brought forth
a belt, buckled it round his waist, shoved the revolver into its