Holman had left me about an hour when I happened to glance at the patch of shadow that had attracted his attention while he was talking to me.  I stopped and watched it intently.  Some one had crawled into the velvety strip and was lying perfectly still.

“Who is there?” I asked.

There was no answer.  The strip of shadow broadened and narrowed as The Waif plunged, but I could discern nothing.  Outside the captain and myself, the crew of The Waif, together with the six men that were with the Professor’s party, were all natives, and I wondered as I watched the shadow why one should be crawling around as if afraid of being seen.  It was possible that he was attempting to thieve something from the galley, and it was also possible that he was spying, as Holman had suggested.

I picked up a small iron pin and tossed it at the spot where I felt sure the islander was hiding.  I didn’t throw the pin with any force, although the yell that came out of the shadow would convince an onlooker that I had thrown it with murderous intent.

I sprang forward while the shriek of pain was still vibrating in the air, but the native was determined to have revenge for the rap from the iron pin.  A knife flashed in the moonlight, and I staggered as the blade touched my forehead like a tongue of flame.  A dark figure dashed along the deck toward the forecastle, and brushing the blood from my eyes I started in pursuit.

At the head of the companion-stairs I collided heavily with Newmarch, who had just rushed up from the cabin, and the force of the shock nearly threw him off his feet.

“Confound it!” he cried.  “What’s the matter with you?”

“One of the Kanakas nearly cut my eye out!” I roared.  “He flung a knife at me and ducked for the f’c’stle.”

I left him standing in angry astonishment and rushed forward.  I stood at the top of the ladder and listened.  The only noises that came up were the shrill snores of the islanders, but the blood that streamed down my face made me forget prudence, and I scrambled down into the stuffy quarters, where the odour of natives was overwhelming.

A swinging lamp dimly illuminated the place, and I snatched it from its hook and swung it over the face of the naked occupant of the first bunk.  A glance convinced me that his sleep was genuine.  His mouth was wide open as he snored, and the native who feigns sleep hasn’t enough sense to make his imitation more real by opening his mouth.

The man in the next bunk, a muscular Kanaka, had his face turned away from me, and in spite of his prolonged snore my suspicions were aroused.  I thrust my hand beneath the single blanket that covered him, and was immediately convinced that I had discovered the culprit.  The blanket was cold.

“Here, you scoundrel!” I yelled, dropping the lamp and poking him roughly in the ribs.  “What the devil do you mean by trying to knife me?”