"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 shellfish, "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 gasping MacIan. "He put
up his black head and grinned at me."

Turnbull thrust his hands through his red hair like one who gives
up the world as a bad riddle. "Lord love a duck," said he, "can
it be Jamaica?"

Then glancing at his companion with a small frown, as of one
slightly suspicious, he said: "I say, don't think me rude--but
you're a visionary kind of fellow--and then we drank a great
deal. Do you mind waiting here while I go and see for myself?"

"Shout if you get into trouble," said the Celt, with composure;
"you will find it as I say."

Turnbull ran off ahead with a rapidity now far greater than his
rival's, and soon vanished over the disputed sand-hill. Then five