into Charleston and back again to Nassau is seven hundred and fifty pounds for the round trip, and half the money down before starting. His risk is great, and, therefore, his pay is high. He will be roughly dealt with if the Stormy Petrel falls in with one of the Northern blockaders on the way. So he has five minutes with closed doors in the captain's cabin before starting, and there receives across the table three hundred and seventy-five pounds in good and true Bank of England notes. These he stows carefully away in

"Wa'al, cap'n, I guess our people hev skinned their eyes pretty clean for the work, this time." "What ships have they now off Charleston Harbour?"

"The Wabash, the Seminole, and the Roanoke; not keowntin' all kinder little wasps o' gunboats and other small fry," says Mr. Zachary Polter. "Humph! Only three ships of war."

"Wa'al, cap'n, I won't swear to that. The Pawnee and the Pocahontas hev been off that coast, I know; and thar's bin a whisper afloat

the recesses of a well-worn pocket-book, which he hands over to his wife, who puts it carefully in her bosom. A hard-faced, weather-beaten, rough fellow of a pilot, ready to take his life in his hand; but tender-hearted withal, and not ashamed to draw his sleeve across his eyes and kiss his wife at parting! This over, she goes away quite quietly and steadily, rowed by a stalwart young nigger in a striped jersey; and when she is some little way from the steamer, puts her handkerchief to her eyes, and looks back no more.

"And now, Mr. Polter," says the captain, "what have we to expect out yonder? The Federals, I suppose, are on the look-out for visitors?"

Mr. Zachary Polter, regarding the deck in the light of a monster spittoon, and behaving accordingly, replies drily:

this last day or tew that the Mohican is expected to jine."

"This is not your first attempt at running the blockade, Mr. Pilot?" says the captain, sharply. "Why, no, cap'n. It is the second time. I ran a rotten old Mississippi tug-boat over, jest three days arter them ships had come down; and pretty smart work it was, tew, with a crack in her steam-pipe big enough to let in a dollar piece edgeways. But it'll be smarter work this time. There's more ships out; and them Parrot guns dew hit at a confounded long range."

"Psha! we can afford to laugh at the Parrot guns, if only we keep well away from 'em," says the captain, contemptuously.

To which Mr. Zachary Polter (still labouring under that little misapprehension with regard to the deck) replies in his driest manner :

"Wa'al, cap'n, I guess it ain't exactly a pleasure trip we air takin' together. We'll laugh, if you please, when we git back agin into this here harbour."

And now the rapid dusk comes on. The men are at their posts; the captain gives the word; and the Stormy Petrel, which has been busily getting up her steam for the last hour or more, swings slowly round, and works out of port as composedly and unobtrusively as she had worked in. The chain of lamps along the quays, the scattered lights sparkling along the shores of the bay, the steady fire of the beacon at the mouth of the harbour, fade, and diminish, and are lost one by one in the distance. For a long time the Stormy Petrel skirts the coast-line, keeping in with the Bahamas, and pursuing her way through British waters; but a little after midnight (the crescent moon now dropping down the west, and a light breeze blowing from the south-east) she stands out to sea.

A lovely night! the horizon somewhat hazy after the heat of the day, but the sea breaking all over into phosphorescent smiles and dimples, and the heavens one glowing vault of stars. The Stormy Petrel, her steam being now well up, rushes on with a foam of fire at her bows and a train of molten diamonds in her wake. Now and then a shark plays round her in her course, distinctly visible in the light of his own progress, and then shoots off like a meteor. Thus the night wears, and at grey dawn the boy in the crow's-nest reports a steamer on the starboard quarter.

Scarcely has this danger been seen and avoided than another and another is sighted at some point or other of the horizon. And now swift orders, prompt obedience, eager scrutiny, are the rule of the day; for the Stormy Petrel is in perilous waters, and her only chance of safety lies in the sharpness of her look-out, and the speed with which she changes her course when any possible enemy appears in sight. All day long, therefore, she keeps doubling like a hare; sometimes stopping altogether, to let some dangerous-looking stranger pass on ahead; sometimes turning back upon her course; but, thanks to her general invisibility and the vigilance of her pilot, escaping unseen, and even making fair progress in the teeth of every difficulty.

And now the sun goes down, half-gold, halfcrimson, settling into a rim of fog-bank on the western horizon. Lower it sinks, and lower; the gold diminishing, the crimson gaining. Now, for a moment, it hangs, a bloody shield, upon the verge of the waters; and the sky is flushed to the zenith, and every ripple crested with living fire. And now, suddenly, it is gone-and before the glow has yet had time to fade, the southern. night rushes in.

An hour or so later the wind drops, and the Stormy Petrel steams straight into a light fog, which lies across her path like a soft, fleecy, upright wall of cloud.

"This fog is in our favour, Mr. Polter," says De Benham, pacing the deck with rapid steps; for the night has now turned somewhat chill and raw.

"Wa'al, sir, that's as it may be," replies the pilot, cautiously. "The fog helps to hide us; but then, yew see, it likewise helps to run us into danger."

And the event proves that that sagacious renegade is right; for at a little after midnight, when all seems to be solitude and security, and no breath is stirring, and no sound is heard save the rushing of the Stormy Petrel through the placid waters, there suddenly rises up before the eyes of all on board a great, ghostly, shadowy Something-a Phantom Ship, vague, mountainous, terrific from the midst of which there issues a trumpet-tongued voice, saying:

"Steamer ahoy! heave-to, or I'll sink you.” "Guess it's the Roanoke," observed the pilot, calmly.

Even as he said the words the American loomed out distincter, closer, within pistol-shot from deck to deck.

The captain of the Stormy Petrel answered the hostile summons.

"Ay, ay, sir,” he shouted through his speakingtrumpet. "We are hove-to."

And then he called down the tube to those in the engine-room, "Ease her!"

"You won't stop the vessel, Captain Hay?" exclaimed De Benham, breathlessly.

"I have stopped her, sir," snarled the captain. Then thundered a second mandate from the threatening phantom alongside. "Lay-to, for boats!"

To which the captain again responded, "Ay, ay, sir!"

De Benham ground his teeth. "But, man," he said, scarcely conscious of the vehemence of his tone, "do you give in thus-without an effort?"

The captain turned upon him with an oath. "Who says I'm going to give in?" he answered, savagely. "Wait till you see me do it, sir."

And now the Stormy Petrel, her steam being suddenly turned off, had ceased to move. All on deck stood silent, motionless, waiting with suspended breath. They could hear the captain of the cruiser issuing his rapid orders-trace, through the fog, the outline of the quarter-boats as they were lowered into the water-hear the splash of the oars, and the boisterous gaiety of the men.

De Benham uttered a suppressed groan, and the perspiration stood in great beads upon his

forehead. He was powerless; and the sense of his powerlessness was intolerable.

"Will you let them board us?" he said, hoarsely, pointing to the boats, now half-way between the two vessels.

The captain grinned, put his lips again to the tube, shouted down to the engineer, "Full speed a-head!" and, with one quivering leap, the Stormy Petrel shot out again upon her course, like a greyhound let loose.

"There, Mr. Supercargo," said the captain, grimly, "that's my way of giving in. Our American friend will hardly desert his boats upon the open sea on such a night as this-even for the fun of capturing a blockade-runner."

At this moment a red flash and a tremendous report declared the prompt resentment of the Federal commander. But almost before these rolling echoes had died away the Stormy Petrel was half a mile a-head, and not an outline of the cruiser was visible through the fog.

"Wa'al now," said Mr. Zachary Polter, "that's what I call sinful extravagance. I calc'late them chaps will come to want good powder and shot some day afore they die."

De Benham went up to the captain with extended hand.

"Captain Hay," he said, frankly, "I spoke just now under excitement-I beg your pardon." The captain grunted, and yielded his hand somewhat unwillingly.

"It is not the supercargo's place, Mr. De Benham, to question the discretion of the captain," he said, with some asperity-and turned

away.

De Benham accepted the rebuke in silence, knowing that he had deserved it.

The night passed over without further incident, and by five o'clock next morning the Stormy Petrel was within eight hours of her destination. Both captain and pilot had calculated on making considerably less way in the time, and had allowed a much wider margin for detours and delays; so that now they were not a little perplexed at finding themselves so near the end of their journey. To go on was impossible, for they could only hope to slip through the cordon under cover of the night. And yet to remain where they were was almost as bad. However, they had no alternative; so, after some little consultation, they agreed to lie-to for the present, keeping up their steam meanwhile, and holding themselves in readiness to repeat the manoeuvres of yesterday whenever any vessel hove in sight.

The fog had now cleared off. The day was brilliant; the sky one speckless dome of intensest blue; the sun, an intolerable splendour, fast climbing to the zenith. The blockade-runners, who would have given much for dark and cloudy

weather, revenged themselves by saying uncivil things of the glorious luminary; till presently a long black trail of smoke on the horizon warned them of a steamer in the offing, whereupon they edged away in the opposite direction as quickly as possible.

And now their troubles had begun again; sometimes it was a frigate, sometimes a merchant-ship, sometimes a steamer, sometimes a sloop of warbut it was always something; and the Stormy Petrel was perpetually sheering off to one or other point of the compass.

Towards sunset Mr. Zachary Polter began to look grave.

"Guess we shan't know whar we air if this game goes on much longer," said he. "It aren't in natur not to get out of one's reck'ning arter dodgin' and de-vi-atin' all day long in this style."

Still, there was no help for it. Dodge and deviate the Stormy Petrel must, if she was to be kept out of harm's way; and even so, with all her dodging and deviating, it seemed well-nigh miraculous that she should escape observation.

At length, as evening drew on and the sun neared the horizon, preparations were made for the final run. Both captain and pilot, by help of charts, soundings, and so forth, had pretty well satisfied themselves as to their position; and Mr. Zachary Polter, knowing at what hour it would be high tide on the bar, had calculated the exact time for going into the harbour.

""Twouldn't be amiss, cap'n," said this latter, "if you was to change that white weskit for suthin dark; nor if you, sir," turning to De Benham, was to git quit o' that light suit altogether for the next few hours."

The captain muttered something about "infernal nonsense;" but went to his cabin, all the same, to change the obnoxious garment. Whereupon Mr. Zachary Polter gave it as his opinion that if the captain and all on board were to black the whites of their eyes and put their teeth in mourning it would not be more than the occasion warranted.

After this an unlucky cock, which had travelled with them in the character of a deck passenger all the way from Liverpool (but was addicted to crowing lustily about midnight and the small hours of the morning) was hurried by the steward to an untimely end. And then, the brief twilight being already past, the engineers piled on the coal, the captain gave the word, and the Stormy Petrel steered straight for Charleston.

And now it is night; clear, but not over clear, although the stars are shining. Objects, however, are discernible at some distance, and ships are sighted continually. But as none of these lie directly in his path, and as he knows his own boat to be invisible by night beyond a certain

begin to cloud over and the night thickens; but there is still no mist upon the sea. Towards two in the morning their patent lead tells that they are nearing shore. Then the pilot gives orders to "slow down the engines"-a breathless silence prevails-every eye is on the watch, every ear on the alert-and, momentarily expecting to catch their first glimpse of the blockading squadron, they steal slowly and cautiously on their way.

And now the sense of time becomes suddenly reversed. Up to this point the hours have gone by like minutes; but now the minutes go by like

question-have they indeed so "dodged and deviated" that the pilot has lost his reckoning?

Still the Stormy Petrel creeps on-still each fresh sounding brings her into shallower waterstill those earger watchers stare into the darkness, knowing that the tide will turn and the dawn be drawing on ere long, and that after sunrise neither speed nor skill can save them.

At length, when suspense is sharpened almost to pain, there comes into sight a faint indefinite something which presently resolves itself into the outline of a large vessel lying at anchor with her

head to the wind and a faint spark of light at her prow.

And now the supreme moment is at hand. Straight and fast the good boat flies, her propellers

"That ar's the senior officer's ship," he whispers. "She lies jest tew miles off the mouth o' Charleston Bar-an' she's bound, yer see, to show a light to her own cruisers. Darned, now, if we ain't fixed it uncommon tidy this time!"

And now, not one by one, but, as it were, simultaneously, the whole line of blockaders comes into sight-some to the right, some to the left of that which shows the light. Of these they count six besides the flag-ship, all under way, and gliding slowly, almost imperceptibly, to and fro in the darkness.

Between some two of these the Stormy Petrel must make her final run; and upon this point there ensues a momentary altercation between captain and pilot-the former insisting that the widest passage lies between two cruisers a little way off to the right, and the latter preferring to go in between the flag-ship and the nearest blockader on the left.

"Tell yer, cap'n," says he, emphatically, "ye'r downright wrong this fit. I guess we shall git threw as right as a fiddle; but if we air cotched sight of-wa'al, then, we know that one of the tew's at anker and can't run arter us. Besides, the flag-ship allers lies nighest in with the channel."

So the captain gives in sulkily, as is his wont; steam is again got up to the highest pressure; and the Stormy Petrel rushes on at full speed. Then the two ships between which lies her perilous path grow momentarily clearer and nearer, and a dark ridge of coast becomes dimly visible beyond them.

and the water hissing past her bows. Now every man on board holds his breath. Now flag-ship and cruiser (the one about half a mile to the right, the other about half a mile to the left) lie out a few hundred yards ahead-now, for the briefest second, the Stormy Petrel is in a line with bothnow she has left them as many hundred yards astern-and now, all at once, she is in the midst of the current, and rushing straight at that long white ridge of boiling surf which marks the position of the bar!

"By Jove!" says the captain, drawing a long breath, "we've done it!"

"Don't yer make tew sartin, cap'n, till we're over the bar," replies Mr. Zachary Polter. "We ain't out o' gunshot range yet awhile."

Over the bar they are, however, ere long, safe and successful.

And now the steam-whistle is blown twice, shrill and fearlessly, and two white lights are hung out over the bows of the vessel; for their pilot has been in before, and knows the signals necessary to be observed inside the cordon. Were these signals neglected, the Stormy Petrel would be fired upon by the Confederate forts.

And now, too, lights are lit, and tongues are loosened, and even Captain Frank Hay unbends for once, promising the men a double allowance of grog, and inviting De Benham and Heneage to a bottle of champagne in his own cabin. A long irregular line of coast has meanwhile emerged into the grey of dawn; and just as the first flush of crimson streams up the eastern sky, the Stormy Petrel casts anchor under the sand-bag batteries of Morris Island.