light was flowing into the saloon. The door was still shut, but
it had been wrenched off its hinges, and that was where the light
came in; also some of the teak planks of the decking, jagged and
splintered, were sticking up through the carpet. The table had
broken from its fastenings and lay upon its side. Everything else
was one confusion. I looked at Bickley. Apparently he had not
awakened. He was stretched out still wedged in with his cushions
and bleeding from a wound in his head. I crept to him in terror
and listened. He was not dead, for his breathing was regular and
natural. The whisky bottle which had been corked was upon the
floor unbroken and about a third full. I took a good pull at the
spirit; to me it tasted like nectar from the gods. Then I tried
to force some down Bickley's throat but could not, so I poured a
little upon the cut on his head. The smart of it woke him in a
hurry.

"Where are we now?" he exclaimed. "You don't mean to tell me
that Bastin is right after all and that we live again somewhere
else? Oh! I could never bear that ignominy."

"I don't know about living somewhere else," I said, "although
my opinions on that matter differ from yours. But I do know that
you and I are still on earth in what remains of the saloon of the
Star of the South."

"Thank God for that! Let's go and look for old Bastin," said
Bickley. "I do pray that he is all right also."

"It is most illogical of you, Bickley, and indeed wrong,"
groaned a deep voice from the other side of the cabin door, "to