"HIGH EXPLOSIVES."

      THE steamer Santa Inez left San Francisco on her last voyage on the 15th of December, 18—. I went aboard at nine a. m., and about a quarter of an hour afterward we got under way, and soon passed Fort Point and crossed the bar, bound for San Diego. The water was quite rough on the bar, and many of the passengers sought the seclusion of their staterooms, not emerging again until afternoon. So for a time I had the deck almost to myself, and walked up and down, gazing at the Cliff House on its rock by the sea, and afterwards at the rugged California coast, that loomed somewhat hazily on our port beam.

      A man of stooping figure and singularly pale, unhealthy complexion occupied one of the seats on deck. A small black satchel hung from his shoulder by a strap. He was reading a book, which he held with trembling hands. I looked at him with some curiosity, and at last, happening to find his lack-luster eyes fixed upon me, I addressed him.

      With a swift, almost stealthy movement he shut the book and thrust it in an inside pocket of his coat, but not before I had caught a glimpse of the strange text, which I thought was Greek. He rose in a quick, nervous way and replied to my remark in English, but slowly and with difficulty. He then asked me if I spoke French, and seemed gratified at my answer.

      "With your permission," he said, "I will walk with you. This breeze is rather cold."

      We walked for some time, but he seemed taciturn, and had not an occasional sentence, pointed and intelligent, fallen from his lips, I should have considered him a dull companion. The passengers now began to reappear, with various degrees of discomfort expressed in look or tone, for the sea was rather heavy. A portly gentleman in black broadcloth and a silk hat passed us, looking at us with cold, austere eyes. His lips were thin and firmly set, and his iron-gray whiskers were trimmed in a severe, business-like fashion. He went forward and engaged in conversation with the captain. A dark-complexioned young man, evidently a mechanic on a journey, stood at the rail smoking a cigarette and glancing occasionally at the austere gentleman and the captain. Two or three middle-aged men were talking loudly about grape-vines, olives, and oranges, despite the Weak whistling of the ocean wind. A few Chinamen appeared from the murky region of the steerage and reeled dizzily about on the forward deck, holding their hats on and catching hold of things about them. Some unhappy ladies were sitting in the cabin or, as it was ironically termed, "Social Hall," — an apartment neither large nor luxuriously furnished on the Santa Inez, and on the present occasion showing no symptoms of sociability.

      My companion seemed to take no notice of these people. He gazed at the deck and walked with his hands clasped behind him.

      "Are you never seasick?" I asked.

      "No," he replied. "You, too, seem to escape."

      "Yes; my father was a sea-captain, and I suppose I inherit his immunity," I said.

      But my companion did not perceive my clumsy little joke. He remarked that that was a very singular thing, and worthy of investigation.

      "My father was —" he paused, and I listened — "not," he added slowly, "and yet I never suffer from mal de mer."

      We turned and walked forward again and met the captain, whom I knew. The austere gentleman was now perusing a newspaper on the lee side of the deck.

      "Do you know that man?" said the captain to me.

      "I do not," I replied.

      "He owns five thousand miles of railroad, more or less, and this line of steamers, besides a small kingdom in land, and coin enough to load the Santa Inez to the guards. About twenty thousand of his employes are out on a strike now."

      "Is that really Elijah Q. Gurrell?"

      "That's the man," said the captain. Then he looked sharply at my singular companion, who was gazing listlessly seaward.

      "What is your opinion of the strike, Captain?" I asked. "Do you think the demands of the men are just?"

      "I don't pretend to judge the case," he said. "I will say just this: Civil war is a bad thing. The workmen will take all they can get, and there is not a wealthy employer in the country but fully understands the vast difference between a dollar and ninety-nine cents." The bronzed captain half closed his eyes and nodded, and then hurried away, for the wind was piping up shrilly and the waves began to buffet the Santa Inez rudely.

      "I love this gracious wind, and the motion of the vessel is soothing to me," said my companion, when I suggested that the shelter of the cabin would be agreeable.

      "Not many on board will share your feelings, I fear," I said. "This breeze is a south-easter, and at this season it sometimes means trouble."

      As he did not answer, I left him still gazing out to sea; but when I reached the cabin door I looked back and saw him holding his book with trembling hands and reading intently.

      I picked out a corner of the cabin where the most light entered, intending to read a work on high explosives, which I was to review for a weekly journal. The cushions of the settees were covered with crimson and white striped linen, and were divided into convenient seats by curved rods of iron covered with maroon plush, — very reassuring to grasp when a huge wave dandled the steamer; at least, so seemed to think the dainty little lady who sat opposite me across the cabin. I changed my mind about reading; there was really no hurry.

      Mr. Elijah Q. Gurrell sat beside her, and a wonderful change had come over his face. A look of affection shone in his eyes, and his severe lips were relaxed in a smile. She was not more than sixteen. Her eyes were very beautiful, — clear, pure, and deep, like pellucid gems irradiated with the light of a soul. She seemed to be asking her father if there was danger, and upon being reassured snuggled down at his side with her head against his coat, and his arm about her.

      I could not but look with reflecting curiosity on this great money king in his paternal aspect. I felt that the little youthful maiden he clasped so affectionately was more to him than all his gold.

      Just then the captain sat down beside me, before I had noticed his entrance.

      "Are we going to have a rough night?" I asked, in a low voice.

      "O no," he replied, "nothing bad. Say, who is that man you were walking with on deck?"

      "Haven't the slightest idea. He speaks French, but intimated that he is not a Frenchman. I never saw him until today."

      "Ah, I thought you knew him."

      The captain soon hurried away again, and I had my doubts about his assertions regarding the weather, for the wind seemed to increase and the sea became rougher.

      Just before dinner I took another turn on deck, and in a few minutes discovered my eccentric friend of the day on the lee of the pilot house, talking to a Chinese in his own tongue. I began to have a deep respect for the linguistic acquirements of the gentleman, and like the captain, was inclined to wonder who and what he was. He had not been nearly so communicative with me as he now seemed to be with the saffron-hued Mongolian.

      I soon descended to the dining saloon, whither the brazen clatter of a bell had summoned the passengers. Mr. Gurrell and his daughter left the table before I did. The dark-faced young man, whom I had set down as a mechanic on his travels, sat opposite me, and soon become communicative. His name was Collins.

      "Do you know who that is?" he asked, leaning forward and nodding mysteriously toward the retiring figure of Mr. Gurrell.

      "I saw him for the first time today, but his name has been familiar to me for some years," I replied.

      "I know him," said Collins, "though I don't suppose he knows me from Adam. I 've worked in his railroad shops four years. We 're out on a strike now, and I 'm taking a little run while we 're waiting. I 'm a striker from way back."

      "Ah! You don't seem much the worse for it," I ventured.

      "No-o-o," he said slowly. "I 'd a good deal rather be at work though. I soon get tired loafing, and a feller spends a good deal, too."

      "What was your reason for striking?" I asked.

      "The walking delegate ordered it."

      "Was not that a little arbitrary?"

      "Perhaps so; but we 've got to hang together, or the game is up."

      "You merely struck to support another strike?"

      "Yes; we had nothing to complain of."

      "Are you sure that the original strike was a just one?"

      "I don't know just the facts, but of course it was. Everybody knows what old Gurrell is."

      "Yes," I assented, "and with such an example before you, I suppose you workingmen are careful to avoid anything like tyranny on your part." I "fired and fell back," for I had made no study of the labor question, and had no desire to argue it with my friend, the striker. So merely expressing the hope that the costly dispute would soon be settled, I rose from the table.

      It was now dark, and after remaining a few moments in the cabin I went on deck to smoke a cigar. It was quite cloudy, and the wind had not subsided in the least. When my eyes had become a little accustomed to the darkness, I discovered a figure standing at a window gazing into the cabin. The rays from the lamp inside soon enabled me to perceive that the person was the strange passenger. He seemed entirely oblivious of his surroundings; his whole being seemed thrown into his eyes. If I had not conversed with him before, I might have suspected that he was slightly off his mental balance. I made an attempt to attract his attention, but not succeeding, I addressed him.

      "You seem fond of the deck, monsieur."

      His gaze remained fixed, but he heard me, for immediately he said in a tone of intense interest, almost awe, "Is that a phantom or a living child?"

      I stepped forward to the window, and saw Mr. Gurrell's daughter sitting alone with clasped hands, and apparently lost in thought; for unconscious of being observed, she was gazing upward with a look that was really angelic, — as mortals imagine celestial things.

      "No phantom, but a lovely idol of clay, I replied. "She is, I believe, the daughter of Elijah O. Gurrell, and I never thought him rich until today. Let us take a walk."

      "No, no!" he said in a strange, husky voice, without removing his eyes from the girl, and he grasped my arm with a powerful and nervous hand. "Ah," he said, in tones of indescribable melancholy, "for a moment I imagined that she had come back to me, — the pure spirit of one who — who — died in Russia." The tone in which he spoke the last words was enough to make one shudder. Never had I heard such horror, rage, and grief, expressed by a human voice.

      Up to this moment he had not taken his eyes from the girl, but like lightning his manner and mood changed. Dropping my arm he darted his hand frantically into the breast of his coat. I imagined he was about to pluck out a pistol orbit of cold steel and become felo de se on the spot. Not so. He brought to light a large antique gold watch, and glared at it for the fraction of a second, — then thrust it back and flew away towards the stern of the steamer as if possessed by a demon. I was considerably surprised and puzzled, and watched my eccentric fellow-voyager with unadulterated curiosity.

      Halfway to the taffrail he wheeled and came rushing back like some strange projectile. I believe that I actually took a position of defense. As he passed me he said something which I did not clearly understand. I thought it was: "It is too late. Follow me."

      "While he was yet speaking he vanished through the cabin door. I hurried after him, and entered just in time to see him stoop and lift Gurrell's daughter in his arms and dash out of the opposite door. I heard the girl's terrified scream as she was borne out into the night, and the door slammed behind them. In the name of the nine devils, what horrid tragedy was that madman about to perpetrate?

      Mr. Gurrell was just coming up the stairs from the dining saloon. He gave an agonized shout, and though I had started in hot pursuit, the father passed the doorway first. Instinctively we looked overboard, but we saw nothing but the frothing waves and heard nothing but their dashing. Then I became aware of a disturbance at the bow, and we hurried forward in a body — for many other passengers had joined us — to the narrow space before the pilot-house.

      The watch on deck were gathered there in an astonished group, and the light of a lantern fell on the dainty figure of Miss Gurrell, who stood erect, very pale, and very much frightened. Just before her in the gangway stood the strange passenger, whom she was entreating to permit her to pass and return to her father. The sailors were beginning to glower dangerously upon him, but he seemed to take no notice either of them or of the girl. He stood like a bronze man, calmly contemplating the antique gold watch which he held in his hand.

      Mr. Gurrell had just reached him, and had raised a hand to push him rudely aside, when the strange man thrust the watch in his pocket, drew forth a scarf or sash of russet silk, and in an instant had wound it round and round the girl's head before she could lift a finger to help herself.

      "You scoundrel!" said Mr. Gurrell fiercely, seizing the stranger's arms.

      The man wheeled swiftly and faced us. With a haughty look he raised his hand, and said coldly and distinctly:

      "Wait."

      We did not have to wait long. Hardly had the words passed his lips when a tremendous explosion shook the steamer. It was not so much a heavy sound as a fearfully instantaneous crack that seemed to split everything into ribbons. I was knocked down, and became so deaf that I could hear nothing for some moments. Many thought we had been struck by lightning.

      I sprang up instantly, and saw a number of men lying on the deck or slowly rising to their feet, but, strangely enough, Miss Gurrell stood erect engaged in releasing her head from the folds of the scarf. I stepped up to help her, and told her not to be frightened, — and was much startled at not hearing my own voice. She looked around her in astonishment, and I think, said something, which of course I could not hear. Then her father took charge of her.

      There was an undeniable panic on board, for no one knew exactly what had happened, or the extent of the damage that had been done, but officers were stationed at all the boats, and the people soon became quiet.

      The captain's stentorian voice was the first sound that revived my stunned hearing, and presently I accompanied him aft to ascertain what damage we had suffered. We found the stern of the vessel badly shattered, and the water entering in a torrent. The captain said she would sink in less than half an hour.

      We found a few wounded persons amongst the debris in the staterooms and cabin, but so far as we could ascertain no one was killed. They were taken forward and placed in the boats, and the embarkation then began, with strict order and discipline enforced. There was no time to lose, but some fresh water and provisions were placed in each of the four boats, and we made another careful search for wounded.

      So there we were in open boats on an angry ocean at night, and saw the green light of the Santa Inez disappear in the sea like a quenched star. The gale increased, and the waves rose high, and the drenching rain poured down, and we were driven we knew not whither, — each boat on a wild way of its own.

      When the angry dawn broke at last, we could only see more plainly the fierce rush of black cloud masses across the sky, and the monstrous waves that menaced us, white-maned and bristling. I looked to see who were my companions in distress, for in the hurry of embarking I had not observed who entered the boat.

      In the crepuscular light I saw Mr. Gurrell supporting his daughter. Beside him was the young striker, in the act of offering his coat to protect the pale girl from the spray. The boat's crew consisted of the second officer, purser, and six sailors. Another dark figure appeared in the bow. I partly rose to see who it was, and easily recognized the mysterious passenger. His satchel hung from his shoulder, and he was bending low over his book, which he held with shaking hands. It occurred to me that there was something uncanny about the man.

      The water became more broken, and the officer seemed very anxious. I had not the least idea where we were, and I doubt if he had. At any rate we were all thoroughly startled when a gigantic cliff, scarred and frowning, loomed out of the mist close at hand. Huge billows burst against it with hollow thunder and flew in creamy spray half way to the top. Presently we saw that it was a high, isolated rock, but away to the left we saw a long, sandy shore on which the surf was breaking tremendously, line after line, for half a mile out.

      The sailors pulled away frantically to avoid being thrown on the rock, but in escaping that danger we became more and more enveloped in the breakers. Every moment we were in imminent peril of shipping a sea that would swamp us. Under these circumstances, the crew were ordered to pull for a little cove which appeared between the cliff and the sandy beach. Waiting until an extraordinary roller came along, the sailors gave way vigorously, and we rode in on its crest with great rapidity. Unfortunately, when the wave rolled from beneath us our boat came down on a pointed rock, which stove it irremediably just amidships, and while thus dismally spitted, a monstrous billow buried us all in its green bosom.

      We all wore life-preservers, and so we all came to the surface in various states of preservation. I struck out for the beach not far distant, and as we had passed the worst of the surf, and as a current seemed to set in shore at that point, I soon reached the land. Several of the sailors were already ashore, and were preparing to aid the others, who were struggling in the water. I saw Mr. Gurrell swimming strongly, but heading away from the shore, and a feeling of horror came over me as I failed to recognize among the swimmers the fair head of his daughter.

      I was about to plunge in again to aid the father in his search, when it occurred to me that the girl might have been carried into the little cove near by. I ran along the beach, which curved in sharply and was covered with driftwood. I had gone perhaps twenty rods, scanning anxiously the troubled waters of the cove, when a calm voice said in French, "She is safe, monsieur."

      Turning quickly, I saw Miss Gurrell lying apparently unconscious beside a pile of driftwood, and the strange passenger kneeling beside her, and evidently trying to restore her. I hurried up to them, but as I approached, the girl sprang up and ran to me, seized my arm, and cried in a frightened voice:

      "Where is my father? Take me to my father. Don't leave me with him."

      It looked as if she had been feigning insensibility, being horribly afraid of her rescuer.

      He had already begun to gather materials for a fire, and there was a look of desolation on his face.

      "Come then," I said, for I believed that Gurrell would not leave the surf until he had found his daughter. "Let us run, for your father is searching for you."

      I took her hand, and we ran along the beach. As I thought, Mr. Gurrell was still battling with the breakers, but when he caught sight of his child, he swam feebly in, and was pulled ashore more dead than alive by Collins and the sailors.

      All of our party were now safely ashore, — a miserable and half-drowned group. We knew not what spot of earth we had been thrown upon. There were but two prominent features in the landscape; one the high rock near which we had landed, and the other a lofty hill, which rose to a rocky pinnacle about half a mile from the beach. We had reason to fear that we had been thrown upon an island of no great size.

      A column of blue smoke began to ascend from the cove, and we hurried in that direction to dry our clothing and warm our bodies, chilled by the water and the piercing wind. A heap of driftwood was blazing cheerfully, but the strange passenger was gone. How he had found means to kindle a fire after such a thorough drenching in the sea was a mystery to me.

      When my clothing was partially dry I left the steaming group at the fire, and set out for the lofty hill to take an observation. The exercise was grateful, and by the time I reached the summit the warm blood was tingling in my chilled limbs. The wind was now subsiding and the clouds were breaking away, and it took but a glance from the bleak, storm-beaten pinnacle to assure me that we were on a small island. I could see the entire circumference of beach, for the land sloped away irregularly in every direction from the spot where I stood. A brook bordered with stunted willows flowed in a little ravine and emptied into the cove near our fire.

      While gazing somewhat disconsolately at the prospect, I suddenly perceived that I was not alone. Beside a rock near by sat the strange passenger, reading intently as usual. He had contrived to keep the salt water from his fascinating volume, whatever it was. Over his shoulder hung his satchel. I approached him. He at once put up his book, with the same swift, half-stealthy motion, and turned to me with something like a smile.

      "You perceive we are insulated for the time," said he, "but this hill will be an excellent point from which to signal passing vessels."

      "It was a very singular accident that destroyed the steamer," said I. "How do you account for it?"

      "It was terrible, indeed," he said, "yet not so very singular in this age. Evidently an explosive substance had been placed in some part of the stern of the vessel. The most singular part of it," he continued slowly, "was the way in which I was affected by it. You will recollect that just before the explosion occurred I stood at the window looking at that beautiful child in the cabin. For a moment I gazed upon her as upon an angel returned from the shades, for she is the likeness of one who — died in Russia." Again that spasm of rage, horror, and anguish, wrenched him.

      I was touched. Who was it that had died so mournfully in Russia? Wife or daughter, doubtless.

      "My friend," I was impelled to say, although the sentiment was trite and the question a rash one, "we all must die. Do not you hope to see again that departed one whom you seem to have loved so dearly?"

      He looked at me wistfully, and said in a husky voice, "You do not know — you do not realize how we die in Russia."

      Dreadful tales of Russian prisons came to my mind, — dungeons, chains, torture, and wretches mad from long captivity.

      "I was about to tell you my curious experience," he said, returning to his natural manner. "While gazing at the girl, as I said, a strange presentiment of danger suddenly came strongly upon me. A powerful impulse, either from without or within, took complete possession of me, and I acted according to its dictates, fully aware that my reason was dormant for the moment, and not caring to take the responsibility of opposing my will to this mysterious impulse. Perhaps you had doubts of my entire sanity for the moment. But surely you have known of these mystic impulses?"

      "Sometimes called emotional insanity?" I suggested.

      "I do not understand that term," he said doubtfully; "but, believe me, it was not insanity; it was wholly in my power to resist the impulse had I wished to do so, in which case you and I and that beautiful girl would have been mangled by the explosion."

      "After the explosion took place I had no doubt of your complete sanity," I said. "But after transporting Miss Gurrell to the bow so precipitately, you seemed to consult your timepiece, and then enveloped her head in your scarf just as the explosion occurred, — was that also a mystic impulse?"

      "Explain it if you can," he said calmly. "All was impulse up to the moment I turned and told you all to wait. That was all I could say, for I felt that something would soon happen to give a sufficient reason for an act that I had performed blindly. Now listen, and I feel that you will not doubt me. I am a sick man, near to death, whose only happiness is to obtain a moment's release from almost constant pain. I am a Russian by birth. I resided in St. Petersburg for many years, amid scenes of elegance and wealth, until I was sent to Siberia for so-called political crimes. I toiled for years in deadly mines, where death set his mark upon me. Men do sometimes escape from that dreadful place; sometimes eastward through Kamtchatka, sometimes southward through China, sometimes downward through hell. If I had strength, I could tell you things that would horrify you; but I dare not even think of them. If they were told, you would not believe them. Can you wonder that a shattered being like me should be affected by subtle influences that stronger organizations would not feel? I have been frank with you, and have touched upon a subject very painful to me, because I value the regard of all good men."

      I left my singular companion and returned to the beach somewhat perplexed. His actions had excited grave suspicions in my mind, yet it was possible that I had wronged him. As I approached the fire, I heard the authoritative tones of Mr. Gurrell, who was addressing his officers and sailors.

      "Remember," he was saying, "that you 're still in my employ just the same as if you were on board one of my steamers. I expect to signal a vessel within twenty-four hours. Your pay will go on just the same, although you may lose some time. So, Mr. Second Officer, you will set your men at work putting up a cabin on the beach near the fire. Here's a plenty of driftwood you can use, and you can cut a lot of willow brush from the creek yonder to make the roof. Mr. Purser, you will prospect along the beach and the rocks, and see if you can find any thing fit to eat."

      Mr. Gurrell had fully recovered from his struggle in the surf, and his characteristic vigor and ability were cropping out. His daughter was sitting on a timber by the fire, looking quite warm and rosy, and prettier than ever, with her long brown hair falling on her shoulders. Near her was the young striker, who was saying something to her at which she laughed.

      After giving orders to his men, Mr. Gurrell saw me, and at once took me aside, with a serious look on his face.

      "You are Ponsonby Playfair Monk, the writer," he said. "I know you by reputation although I 've never met you before. You have been up the hill yonder. We are on an island, I suppose, — neither land nor sail in sight, eh? Well, I shall hoist a signal on the peak presently. Do you know what island this is?"

      "My geography is wholly at fault," I replied.

      "You are well acquainted with Ivan Sevruga, I believe," he said with a keen look.

      "The name is entirely strange to me."

      "He is that bilious-looking fellow who swam ashore with Ione, my daughter," explained Gurrell.

      "Oh, indeed, I did not know his name," I said. "I never saw him until yesterday."

      "What is your opinion of that explosion?" asked Gurrell, bluntly,

      "I 'm rather at a loss for an opinion," I replied. I then related to him the explanation Sevruga had given me of his singular behavior at the time of the disaster. Gurrell looked incredulous, and said:

      "It 's all a lie, depend upon it. He 's a dynamite crank, but I 've got him now, and he shall not escape."

      "But dynamite cranks do not usually trust their precious carcasses in the steamers they demolish," I suggested. This seemed to make a profound impression on Mr. Gurrell, and after scowling for a moment, he said:

      "That 's so. Of course it might have been done impromptu when he found that I was on board. Still, I believe he 's innocent after all. Then it must have been the other one."

      "Who?" I asked in surprise.

      "Collins," murmured Gurrell, "that young fellow at the fire. He 's one of my striking employés, confound him. Now, here is my other supposition: If Sevruga is a dynamiter he is probably a skillful one, and would not commit any blunders. If he placed a bomb in the steamer, set by clockwork, of course he would give himself time to get off at the first port, which is San Pedro, and the bomb would explode after the vessel had continued her voyage. Now, I believe that is just what Collins intended to do, but being a bungler, his fireworks went off prematurely. I know positively that Collins intended to land at San Pedro, while Sevruga was booked for San Diego."

      "You seem to be well informed regarding these men."

      "I have seen Collins at work in my shops," said Gurrell, "and the purser's book told me the rest. I discovered who you were in the same way."

      "I am perplexed regarding this affair," I said. "Sevruga's story, although strange, seemed wholly sincere; but yet I think you wrong Collins by your suspicions."

      "No, sir," said Gurrell, decisively, "depend upon it, he 's the man. At the same time I wish that I had access to the telegraph and telephone for an hour; I should search for the personal history of Ivan Sevruga. Our situation here has its disadvantages, you see."

      At that moment the six sailors approached us in a body, and we perceived that they had not yet commenced work on the cabin. The second officer stood at a distance looking in our direction. The sailors came up with a firm but embarrassed air, and their spokesman said:

      "Mr. Gurrell, I hope you 'll hear what we 've got to say without any hard feelin's, 'cause in our present sitiwation we don't mean no harm by it. We all belong to the Seamen's Ironclad League, and at the last meetin' the League decided to strike on this very day for five dollars a month more wages, and we all took the oath to strike and stand by it. So we 've got to strike, you see. Perhaps you 'll stand the raise, Mr. Gurrell."

      Mr. Gurrell's reply would not look well on paper. It was loud, vigorous, embellished with quaint figures, and wound up with anything but a blessing. He was very angry. When there was a lull, the sailor said:

      "Hope you won't be angry, sir. We 've got to stand by the strike, but we won't quarrel while we 're aground here. We 're goin' to put up a cabin beside the fire just to amuse ourselves, and we don't care who goes into it, — you can if you want to."

      "You'll build no cabin for me," said Mr. Gurrell, emphatically. "I discharge you all, so make yourselves scarce."

      "That'll have to be settled with the Ironclad League, not with us alone," said the spokesman. "We don't bear no ill-will, sir, but we 've got to keep the oath."

      "You can keep it till you 're gray-headed," said Mr. Gurrell, waving them away. The sailors went down the beach a hundred yards, where they built another fire, and began erecting a shelter. Gurrell watched them for a few moments, then turned to me and said suspiciously, "D—n it, I wonder if they had anything to do with it."

      Just then his glance fell upon the young striker at the fire, who was chatting away merrily with Miss Ione, and she was bending forward with evident interest, and smiling as she listened. Gurrell gave a sort of dissatisfied growl.

      "I must go and hoist that signal," he said. "I will leave Ione in your charge while I am gone."

      He hastened to the fire and asked Collins to help him in the matter of the signal. Then he said to his daughter:

      "Ione, we 're going to hoist a signal on the peak. You stay here with Mr. P. P. Monk. Mr. Monk is the author of that little novel called 'Nip and Tuck,' that pleased you so much not long ago."

      Presently Mr. Gurrell, the second officer, and Collins went away toward the peak, carrying a long stick with them. The purser was out on the rocks, looking like some strange sea-bird in pursuit of its prey, and I was left with Miss Ione.

      "Isn't this delightful, Mr. Monk," she said. "Just think, to be actually shipwrecked in this romantic way! O, I 'll have a thrilling story to tell the girls when I get back to the seminary."

      Mr. Gurrell and his daughter seemed inspired by the same sanguine courage. To them this dangerous shipwreck was but an incident; they fully expected to be in San Francisco again in a day or two. For my part, I had been seriously contemplating the prospect of residing on this desert isle for ten years at least.

      "I should have asked father to let me go up to the peak with them, but he called me 'Ione,' and I knew it was n't best to say a word," she went on. "Did you really write 'Nip and Tuck'? I was so interested in it that I sat up till midnight to finish it, and failed in physiology next day. What a character Tuck was! I felt like clapping my hands every time he appeared on the scene. What is that young gentleman's name who was talking to me just now? Do you know him?"

      "His name is Collins. I am but slightly acquainted with him," I replied.

      "Collins? Well, he reminded me of Tuck sometimes, he was so amusing. He said he was one of the strikers that I read about, and told me such comical things about their meetings and the funny speeches that some of the strikers make, that I could n't help laughing. He does n't look like a striker, does he? I always supposed that a striker was a ferocious, intoxicated ruffian, with a club in one hand and a torch in the other; but Mr. Collins was quite well dressed before his coat was shrunk with salt water, and he is really polite and entertaining, and certainly not drunk. He said, though, that I must consider the circumstances in which he is placed, — on an island where prohibition seems to be strictly enforced. But I do not believe that he was ever intoxicated, do you?"

      I replied that I certainly hoped not.

      "What became of the man who brought me ashore?" asked Ione, after a slight pause.

      I told her he was on the peak.

      "Do you think my father is safe?" she asked, with some alarm, unconsciously drawing nearer to me.

      "Perfectly safe, I think. You seem to fear Mr. Sevruga."

      "Is he a friend of yours?" she asked, her eyes opening wide.

      "O no. I know but little about him. Why do you ask?"

      "I think he knew that the steamer was going to blow up," she whispered. "He terrified me nearly to death when he seized me and carried me out of the cabin; and as he hurried along the deck he kept telling me to cover my ears with my hands, and not to be frightened. I thought he was going to throw me overboard."

      My grave suspicions of Ivan Sevruga began to revive.

      "Mr. Monk," said Ione, "I feel as if the dinner bell ought to ring. Let us go down to the beach, and see if we can find some lobster salad or something."

      "I am afraid that limpets and mussels will be the extent of the menu, unless we can get into the good graces of some of the local sea-nymphs, and induce them to bring us some deep-sea delicacies, or even that bag of hard bread that was in the boat."

      "That reminds me of Mr. Collins's ridiculous slang. He said that the purser was out on the rocks trying to 'make a mash' on a mermaid. I detest that expression. O, Mr. Monk, have you a fishing line?"

      I was obliged to regret that, as I had not anticipated a Spartan picnic on a desert island, my fishing tackle was safely stowed away at home. However, we went down to the beach, and poked about among the briny sea products.

      In a few moments we saw Sevruga approaching along the shore. Ione was much alarmed, and begged me, to stay close beside her.

      "He will not harm you," I said. "He is an unhappy man, and you remind him of some one whom he loved dearly, and who is now dead."

      "Is that so," she said softly, and looked at him with pitying interest. Sevruga came up and offered us some curious berries, which grew on a low, thick-leaved plant in the sand, and which he called tenita berries; but we were not yet hungry enough to like them. The tide was going out, and Sevruga said to Ione:

      "Mademoiselle, wherever we go in the world, Nature provides us food." And after calling our attention to little indentations in the sand near the edge of the water, which looked as if the tip of a finger had been lightly pressed upon it, he took a short, sharp stick and dug up eight or ten large clams at a depth of about six inches.

      Ione suddenly became quite gracious to him, and took great delight in unearthing the big bivalves; she seemed to have lost her fear.

      Mr. Gurrell raised his signal, and laid a heap of brush on the peak ready to set on fire when a vessel appeared. When he and the rest returned, we erected some primitive shelters of driftwood and willow boughs around the fire, and dined on clams and mussels baked in the coals. The sailors remained at their own camp-fire, and their employer seemed to ignore their presence. Sevruga and Collins became rivals in entertaining Ione, — each in his own peculiar way, — while Gurrell watched them both with suspicious eyes. During the night we took turns standing guard.

      We remained on the island five days, during which time Sevruga read his book, the sailors kept watch from the peak and held mysterious conferences, the second officer, the purser, and Mr. Gurrell planned a raft, with a sail of woven willow bark, I studied the geological formation of the island, and Collins made love to Ione, — to her father's intense indignation. We all became dismally weary of baked clams and mussels.

      One morning about ten o'clock a sailor came running from the peak shouting "Sail ho!" It was like an electric shock. Sevruga and Gurrell each caught up fire on pieces of driftwood, and flew up the hill as if running a foot-race. The rest followed in a body, and Ione called out to me to help her up the hill.

      When we reached the summit a tall column of smoke was ascending. Away to the northwest was the vessel, her sails shining in the sun. She seemed to be keeping steadily on her course. We brought up armfuls of green brush to make a dense smoke, and swung our coats in the air, but in half an hour it became plain that the ship was fast leaving the island astern.

      We were in despair. Sevruga had been one of the most active in signaling, but now he stood in gloomy apathy watching the receding vessel. Ione began to cry silently, and hid her face on her father's arm. The Russian looked at her sadly. Suddenly he said vehemently:

      "All go back to camp. I vill try 'nother way to call the ship."

      Gurrell looked at him suspiciously.

      "No time to lose," said Sevruga. "Go down, and come not back till you hear f'om me."

      He seemed so earnest that we went down to the camp, leaving him standing statue-like on the pinnacle, his satchel over his shoulder, — a weird figure. We halted on the shore and looked back toward the peak. Sevruga had disappeared, but the fire still sent up its tall column of smoke.

      Suddenly the bald pinnacle reared itself into the air, and immediately the sound of a terrific explosion burst upon us. A cloud of rocks and earth rose on high, and descended like a gigantic hail-storm. Some of the fragments fell near us and even endangered us. Sevruga had made his signal!

      Presently I saw something fluttering and circling toward the earth. It fell on the beach, and I ran to pick it up. It was a fragment of a book rudely printed in the Russian language. Not being acquainted with that tongue, I could not discover the character of the work, but I knew that it was the book that I had seen Sevruga perusing so often. Where was the Russian?

      Gurrell was already half way up the hill with material for another fire, and by the time we had another signal smoke ascending we perceived that the vessel had changed her course and was standing in toward the island. The explosion had been heard by those on board.

      In the place of the rocky pinnacle of the hill was a large crater made by the explosion. The little black satchel of the Russian must have contained an explosive of prodigious power.

      We called Sevruga and searched for him, but we never saw him again. That night the boats of the whaling bark Mystic took us from the island, and a day or two afterwards we were transferred to an Australian steamer, which brought us to San Francisco, where we learned that the other boats of the Santa Inez had been rescued.

      I have sometimes fancied that Ivan Sevruga is yet alive. Knowing, perhaps, that he was suspected of blowing up the steamer, he preferred to remain on the island, trusting to fortune to send another ship to his rescue. In that case he would be very willing to have us believe that he perished by the explosion. Yet his beloved book that he always carried with him and studied so intently came fluttering down out of mid-air blown to fragments.

      I submitted the fragments to a Russian gentleman of my acquaintance, and was surprised on learning that the book was a translation of the very work on high explosives that I was about to review when I took passage on the Santa Inez. Wherefore was the translation so rudely and quickly printed? Was Sevruga the translator? Who was Ivan Sevruga? I read some time ago of a dangerous escaped lunatic, a Frenchman, who believed himself a persecuted Russian prince, and whose eccentricities took the direction of dynamite. Is it possible that Sevruga was he, or was the strange passenger really a shattered wreck flung out from the dread whirlpool of Russia?

C. E. B.