One evening, not long ago, an old island comrade and I sat on the
verandah looking out upon the waters of Sydney Harbour, smoking and
talking of the old wild days down there in the Marshall group, among
the brown people who dwell on the white beaches under the shade of the
swaying palms. And as we talked, the faces of those we had known came
back one by one to our memories, and passed away.
*****
In front of us, with her tall, black spars cutting out clearly against
the flood of moonlight, that lit up the waters of the quiet little bay,
lay the old _Wolverene_--to both of us a silent reminder of one night
not long ago, under far-off skies, when the old corvette sailed past
our little, schooner, towering up above us, a cloud of spotless white
canvas, as she gracefully rose and sank to the long sweep of the ocean
swell.
*****
“Poor old Tierney,” said my friend, alluding to the captain of that
little schooner. “He's dead now; blew his hand off with dynamite down in
the Gilbert Group--did you know?”
“Yes. What a good fellow he was! There are few like him left now. Aye,
few indeed.”
“By the way, did he ever tell you about Jack Lester and his little
daughter, Tessa?”
“Something of it. You were with him in the _Mana_ that trip, weren't
you?”
*****
“Yes,” said my friend, “Brayley and I both. He had been up to Honolulu,
sick; and he came on board of the _Mana_ and seemed so anxious to
get back to his station on Maduro that Tierney--good old fellow as he
was--told him to bring his traps aboard, and he would land him there
on the way to Samoa. His wife had died five years before, and he had to
leave his station in the care of his daughter, a child of twelve or so.
Not that he fretted much about the station--it was only the little girl
he thought of.”