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only a tall figure silhouetted for an instant upon the crest of some sand dune and then disappearing behind it. This rather increased the Robinson Crusoe feeling in Mr. Turnbull, and he looked about almost disconsolately for some sign of life. What sort of life he expected it to be if it appeared, he did not very clearly know. He has since confessed that he thinks that in his subconsciousness he expected an alligator.

The first sign of life that he did see, however, was something more extraordinary than the largest alligator. It was nothing less than the notorious Mr. Evan MacIan coming bounding back across the sand heaps breathless, without his cap and keeping the sword in his hand only by a habit now quite hardened.

“Take care, Turnbull,” he cried out from a good distance as he ran, “I’ve seen a native.”

“A native?” repeated his companion, whose scenery had of late been chiefly of shell-fish, “what the deuce! Do you mean an oyster?”

“No,” said MacIan, stopping and breathing hard, “I mean a savage. A black man.”

“Why, where did you see him?” asked the staring editor.

“Over there—behind that hill,” said the gasp-