radiantly folding and expiring one upon another like the ripples on the
beach.

When he came to himself he was on his feet. The moon was high, his fire
was smouldering; his heart was beating madly and his eyes were fixed on
the steamer, looming large, moving at full speed, her green light showing,
her red light hid, and her long wake glowing with comet fire. In a moment
she would be passing. It was too late for beacon-flame or torch. He sprang
for his gun, and mounting the first low rise fired into the air, once!--
twice! --and shouted, "Help!--help!"

She kept straight on. She was passing, she was passing! In trembling haste
he loaded and fired again, again wailed out his cry for help, and still
she kept her speed. He had loaded for the third discharge, still
frantically calling the while, and was lifting his gun to fire when he saw
the white light at her foremast-head begin to draw nearer to the green
light at her waist and knew she was turning. He fired, shouted, and tried
to load again; but as her red light brightened into view beside the green,
he dropped his gun and leaped and crouched and laughed and wept for joy.

* * * * *

"Why, Gregory!" the naval lieutenant cried, as the castaway climbed from
the steamer's boat to her deck. "Why, you blasted old cracked fiddle! what
in----"

"Right, the first guess!" laughed Gregory, "there's where I've been!" and
in the cabin he explained all.

"The fiddle's mended," he concluded. "You can play a tune on it--by being