"Not them," sniffed Ben, "they are as much at home in the water as
they are ashore. Hello!" he exclaimed, suddenly pointing, "there's
your field-glasses again, Frank."

Sure enough, from the hands of a spluttering, half-drowned native,
the Krooman who spoke English had just wrested a dripping pair of
black morocco-covered field-glasses. He held them aloft in triumph,
treading water while he held the other's head under the sea as a
punishment for his thievery.

"I catch 'um, boss, I catch um," he kept shouting triumphantly. A
few seconds later, having half drowned the unfortunate thief, he
stood dripping like a figure cut out of black basalt before the boy.
As he received his recovered property Frank presented its rescuer
with the sovereign. If it had been a fortune the man could not have
been more overcome with gratitude. He sank on his knees.

"You come ashore my boat?" he begged. "Cost nothing to United
States boys."

The adventurers assented and, having seen their baggage properly
stowed on the lighter, they landed through the surf a short time
later and found themselves on the flat, yellow beach facing the
rather dreary looking row of Europeans' houses. The method of
landing the surf boats and the wonderful dexterity with which the
natives handle them is worth a whole chapter to itself. But it
might prove tedious reading, so suffice it to say, that with one man
standing erect in the stern with a steering oar, and the others
paddling like demons, the Ivory Coast boatmen invariably land their