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"I'll talk things over with Billy in the mornin'," promised Wilson as he took the boot-jack from its peg. "When such a man as Nelson is in your mind." No more would the fire-flies weave a gauze of golden stars above the marshlands at the foot of the Causeway. The season of green and blue had lived and died and in its place had been born a season of drab and brown. Summer was gone. The song-birds had migrated. Soon the green rush fields would sway, grey and dead and the bronze woodcocks would whistle away from the bog-lands, for seldom did they tarry after the first frost. Along the creek the red-winged black-birds would be sounding their up-and-away notes. No happy carol to welcome the first glow of dawn! No wonder Billy sighed. Then he lifted his head quickly as, high above him, sounded the whistle of wings. Up from the north a wedgeshaped flock of wild ducks came speeding, white backs flashing as they pitched downward in unbroken formation towards the calling bay-waters..

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"Yes, sir," answered Captain Weaver, "I took notice of him on the fok'sle." But as he said these words one of the two figures on the Minorca who stood close to the wheel, bawled, with his hand protecting his mouth from the sidelong sweep of the wind: "The ship's at your sarvice, your honours; and right glad we are that you've overhauled us, as it is about time we was under lawful government." "The wind's gone down," said the boy. "Jest a fair sailin' breeze now." "Yep, I heard, but they ain't pirates, 'cause they didn't have no tattoo marks on 'em, er rings in their ears; but whoever they are they're up to no good. They're aimin' to hide somethin' somewheres, but jest what it is an' where they intend hidin' it there's no way of tellin'; so come on, let's get movin'.".