turned a grinning face to the captain, who was scanning the landscape through his glass.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir," he said.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Captain Parkinson.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, that ain't rightly no flag. That's what you might rightly call a garment, sir. It's an undershirt, beggin' your pardon."
"Black undershirt's a new one to me," muttered Trendon.
"No, sir. It ain't rightly black, look."
Wrenching the object from its fastenings, he flapped it violently. A cloud of sooty dust, beaten out, spread about his face. With a strangled cry the sailor cast the shirt from him and rolled in agony upon the ground.
"You fool!" cried Trendon. "Stand back, all of you."
Opening his medicine case, he bent over the racked sufferer. Presently the man sat up, pale and abashed.
"That's how poisonous volcanic gas is," said the surgeon to his commanding officer. "Only inhaled remnants of the dust, too."
"An ill outlook for the man we're seeking," the captain mused.
"Dead if he's anywhere on this highland," declared Trendon. "Let's look at his flag-pole."
He examined the staff. "Came from the beach," he pronounced. "Waterworn. H'm! Maybe he ain't so dead, either."
"I don't quite follow you, Dr. Trendon."
"Why, I guess our man has figured this thing all out. Brought this pole up from the beach to plant it
