Genre - Adventures. You are on the page - 7

rike Europe. Piff! My cig's out. I can'tsmoke the truck the steward sells. Any gen'elman got a realTurkish cig on him?"The chief engineer entered for a moment, red, smiling, and wet."Say, Mac," cried Harvey cheerfully, "how are we hitting it?" "Vara much in the ordinary way," was the grave reply. "The youngare as polite as ever to their elders, an' their elders are e'entryin' to appreciate it." A low chuckle came from a corner. The German opened

feet, everything about him was too much chiseled, overdelicate. Sitting still, he might have been taken for a very pretty girl masquerading in male attire; but when he moved, his lithe agility suggested a tame panther without the claws."Is that really it? What should I do without you, Arthur? I should always be losing my things. No, I am not going to write any more now. Come out into the garden, and I will help you with your work. What is the bit you couldn't understand?" They went

nd of Tortuga free from the obnoxious strangers, down upon Hispaniola they came, flushed with their easy victory, and determined to root out every Frenchman, until not one single buccaneer remained. For a time they had an easy thing of it, for each French hunter roamed the woods by himself, with no better company than his half-wild dogs, so that when two or three Spaniards would meet such a one, he seldom if ever came out of the woods again, for even his resting place was lost.But the very

he illumination consisted of candles set in bottles and some electric hand lamps. The centre of the cellar was occupied by two portable operating tables, rarely untenanted during the three hours I spent in this hell.The atmosphere--for there was no ventilation--stank of sweat, blood, and chloroform. By a powerful effort I countered my natural tendency to vomit, and looked around me. The sides of the cellar were lined with figures on stretchers. Some lay still and silent, others writhed and

balmy breeze fanned my cheek, and I thought of home, and the garden at the back of my father's cottage, with its luxuriant flowers, and the sweet-scented honey-suckle that my dear mother trained so carefully upon the trellised porch. But the roaring of the surf put these delightful thoughts to flight, and I was back again at sea, watching the dolphins and the flying-fish, and reefing topsails off the wild and stormy Cape Horn. Gradually the roar of the surf became louder and more distinct. I

there rang out overhead a startling cry from the crow's-nest:"Something ahead, sir--can't make it out." The first officer sprang to the engine-room telegraph and grasped the lever. "Sing out what you see," he roared. "Hard aport, sir--ship on the starboard tack--dead ahead," came the cry. "Port your wheel--hard over," repeated the first officer to the quartermaster at the helm--who answered and obeyed. Nothing as yet could be seen from the bridge. The