When morning dawned after a sleepless night,
it was seen that the stranger was crowding on
all sail to come out of the harbour and offer
battle. As the two ships came nearer to each
other, the stranger fired a gun and hoisted
Roman colours. Boldheart then perceived her
to be the Latin-Grammar-Master's bark. Such
indeed she was, and had been tacking about the
world in unavailing pursuit, from the time of
his first taking to a roving life.

Boldheart now addressed his men, promising
to blow them up, if he should feel convinced
that their reputation required it, and giving
orders that the Latin-Grammar-Master should
be taken alive. He then dismissed them to
their quarters, and the fight began with a broad-
side from the Beauty. She then veered round
and poured in another. The Scorpion (so was
the bark of the Latin-Grammar-Master
appropriately called) was not slow to return her fire,
and a terrific cannonading ensued, in which the
guns of the Beauty did tremendous execution.

The Latin-Grammar-Master was seen upon
the poop, in the midst of the smoke and fire,
encouraging his men. To do him justice, he
was no Craven, though his white hat, his short
grey trousers, and his long snuff-coloured surtout
reaching to his heels—the self-same coat
in which he had spited Boldheart—contrasted
most unfavourably with the brilliant uniform of
the latter. At this moment Boldheart, seizing
a pike and putting himself at the head of his
men, gave the word to board.

A desperate conflict ensued in the hammock
nettings—or somewhere in about that direction
—until the Latin-Grammar-Master, having all
his masts gone, his hull and rigging shot through
and through, and seeing Boldheart slashing a
path towards him, hauled down his flag himself,
gave up his sword to Boldheart, and asked for
quarter. Scarce had he been put into the captain's
boat, 'ere the Scorpion went down with
all on board.

On Captain Boldheart's now assembling his
men, a circumstance occurred. He found it
necessary with one blow of his cutlass to kill
the Cook, who, having lost his brother in the
late action, was making at the Latin-Grammar-
Master in an infuriated state, intent on his
destruction with a carving-knife.

Captain Boldheart then turned to the Latin-
Grammar-Master, severely reproaching him with
his perfidy, and put it to his crew what they considered
that a master who spited a boy deserved?

They answered with one voice, "Death."

"It may be so," said the Captain, " but it
shall never be said that Boldheart stained his
hour of triumph with the blood of his enemy.
Prepare the cutter."

The cutter was immediately prepared.

"Without taking your life," said the
Captain, "I must yet for ever deprive you of the
power of spiting other boys. I shall turn you
adrift in this boat. You will find in her, two
oars, a compass, a bottle of rum, a small cask
of water, a piece of pork, a bag of biscuit, and
my Latin grammar. Go! And spite the Natives,
if you can find any."

Deeply conscious of this bitter sarcasm, the
unhappy wretch was put into the cutter, and was
soon left far behind. He made no effort to row,
but was seen lying on his back with his legs up,
when last made out by the ship's telescopes.

A stiff breeze now beginning to blow, Captain
Boldheart gave orders to keep her S.S.W.,
easing her a little during the night by falling off
a point or two W. by W., or even by W.S., if
she complained much. He then retired for the
night, having in truth much need of repose. In
addition to the fatigues he had undergone, this
brave officer had received sixteen wounds in the
engagement, but had not mentioned it.

In the morning a white squall came on, and
was succeeded by other squalls of various
colours. It thundered and lightened heavily
for six weeks. Hurricanes then set in for two
months. Waterspouts and tornadoes followed.
The oldest sailor on board—and he was a very
old one—had never seen such weather. The
Beauty lost all idea where she was, and the
carpenter reported six feet two of water in the hold.
Everybody fell senseless at the pumps every
day.

Provisions now ran very low. Our hero put
the crew on short allowance, and put himself on.
shorter allowance than any man in the ship.
But his spirit kept him fat. In this extremity,
the gratitude of Boozey, the captain of the fore-
top whom our readers may remember, was truly
affecting. The loving though lowly William
repeatedly requested to be killed, and preserved
for the captain's table.

We now approach a change in affairs.

One day during a gleam of sunshine and when
the weather had moderated, the man at the
masthead—too weak now to touch his hat,
besides its having been blown away—called out,
"Savages!"

All was now expectation.

Presently fifteen hundred canoes, each
paddled by twenty savages, were seen advancing in
excellent order. They were of a light green
colour (the Savages were), and sang, with great
energy, the following strain:
                   Choo a choo a choo tooth.
                      Muntch, muntch. Nycey!
                   Choo a choo a choo tooth.
                      Muntch, muntch. Nyce!

As the shades of night were by this time closing
in, these expressions were supposed to embody
this simple people's views of the Evening
Hymn. But it too soon appeared that the
song was a translation of "For what we are
going to receive, &c."

The chief, imposingly decorated with feathers
of lively colours, and having the majestic appearance
of a fighting Parrot, no sooner understood
(he understood English perfectly) that the ship
was the Beauty, Captain Boldheart, than he fell
upon his face on the deck, and could not be
persuaded to rise until the captain had lifted him
up, and told him he wouldn't hurt him. All
the rest of the savages also fell on their faces
with marks of terror, and had also to be lifted up
one by one. Thus the fame of the great Boldheart