"But time will show--time will show!" Never did man speak a truer word! Sub-Chapter IV.
THE STOWAWAYS.
The "Harnessed Mule" was a splendid vessel of a hundred and fifty tons; and as she sailed past the Nore like a floating queen flapping her white wings in the breeze, she reminded the beholders that England still rules the waves.
Her crew consisted of a skipper, four men, and a boy.
Was that all?
Who is this lurking figure in the forward hold, who, with a complacent smile on his lips, gazes on a crumpled map, and ever and anon sharpens a gimlet?
There is a stowaway on board the "Harnessed Mule." One?
There are two.
For in the stern hold lurks another figure, also smiling, as the wind plays through the thin hair on the top of his head, and mutters to himself-- "Ha! ha! Time will show." Sail on, O "Harnessed Mule." You carry a weighty freight inside you.
Who will reach the goal first?
Sub-Chapter V.
THE WRECK OF THE "HARNESSED MULE." Latitude 80 degrees 25 minutes, longitude 4 degrees 6 minutes--a hot, breathless day.

The "Harnessed Mule" glides swiftly over the unruffled blue.

The crew loll about, listening to the babbling of the boiling ocean, and now and then lazily extinguishing the flames which break up from the tropically heated planks.

It is a typical Pacific day.
The stowaway in the forward hold lies prone, conning his map, and marking the gradual approach of the "Harnessed Mule" to the red cross marked there.

Frequently he is compelled to raise himself into a sitting position to give vent to the merriment which possesses him.
"This is better than Latin prose," says he to himself.