CHAPTER I.

THE PLAY COMMENCES.


Blown to bits; bits so inconceivably, so ineffably, so "microscopically"
small that--but let us not anticipate.

About the darkest hour of a very dark night, in the year 1883, a large
brig lay becalmed on the Indian Ocean, not far from that region of the
Eastern world which is associated in some minds with spices, volcanoes,
coffee, and piratical junks, namely, the Malay Archipelago.

Two men slowly paced the brig's quarter-deck for some time in silence,
as if the elemental quietude which prevailed above and below had
infected them. Both men were broad, and apparently strong. One of them
was tall; the other short. More than this the feeble light of the
binnacle-lamp failed to reveal.

"Father," said the tall man to the short one, "I do like to hear the
gentle pattering of the reef points on the sails; it is so suggestive of
peace and rest. Doesn't it strike you so?"

"Can't say it does, lad," replied the short man, in a voice which,
naturally mellow and hearty, had been rendered nautically harsh and
gruff by years of persistent roaring in the teeth of wind and weather.
"More suggestive to me of lost time and lee-way."

The son laughed lightly, a pleasant, kindly, soft laugh, in keeping with