A heavy surf beat upon the shore, and, at a safe distance from it, the British 32-gun frigate _Leda_, Captain A.P.Johnson, raised her black, glistening side upon the crest of a wave, or swooped down into an emerald valley, dipping away to the nor'ard under easy sail.

On her snow-white quarter-deck stood a stiff little brown-faced man, who swept the horizon with his glass.
"Mr.Wharton!" he cried, with a voice like a rusty hinge.
A thin, knock-kneed officer shambled across the poop to him.
"Yes, sir." "I've opened the sealed orders, Mr.Wharton." A glimmer of curiosity shone upon the meagre features of the first lieutenant.

The _Leda_ had sailed with her consort, the _Dido_, from Antigua the week before, and the admiral's orders had been contained in a sealed envelope.
"We were to open them on reaching the deserted island of Sombriero, lying in north latitude eighteen, thirty-six, west longitude sixty-three, twenty-eight.

Sombriero bore four miles to the north-east from our port-bow when the gale cleared, Mr.Wharton." The lieutenant bowed stiffly.

He and the captain had been bosom friends from childhood.