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 her way down Auckland harbour, her white wings fully spread, and her little oil-engine resolutely, for once, at work. She had done exactly the same thing many and many a time before, for she was a boat with a regular trade-route of her own; and more than once had I enviously admired from the shore the gliding of her exquisite white hull and snowy canvas, and her air—that air which belongs of right to every small craft going forth to front great seas and skies, but which always seemed to hang doubly glamorous about the Tikirau—of bravery and adventure and romance.

This time, however—this time—aha! there was a difference. No longer was she mere, remote, cold “she.” No longer must I wistfully watch her from the “steady, unendurable land.” Oh, triumph, no! From a snug, if somewhat narrow, niche upon her own deck was I this time proudly regarding her; I, yes, actually I too, was aboard! All the way down to her southernmost limit, all the way back to Hauraki, she and I—we—we, warm we, if you please—were going a-coasting together! Witness of the bravery I was to be, sharer of the adventure, in the romance. Hurrah!

She was a full boat that evening. As I looked along her deck (flush fore and aft), I wondered if ever a portion of space had been more thoroughly packed. There were the fixtures, to begin with, the galley amidship, freshly painted to an appetising pink-and-white; the wheel; and, right aft, just forward of the wheel, the low oblong roof of the “house,” with its microscopical cabins and nutshell of a saloon. And then there were the extras—and everything that term included, it would take pages