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No. V.—THE YELLOW FLAG.ONE hot night in September, 1896, Dr. Martin, our ship's doctor, and I were having a quiet dinner at the Caulfield Hotel in Melbourne. The North Star was to sail for England on the following day, and amongst other matters we were discussing the possibilities of the voyage, what passengers we might expect on board, and what adventures we were likely to have. The meal proceeded cheerily, for we were both in the best of spirits. We had nearly finished, and were having a smoke with our coffee, when I suddenly noticed that Martin was gazing intently across the room. I heard him say, half aloud—
"Well, if that is not the man himself, it is his ghost."
"What do you mean?" I cried, turning in the direction in which he was looking.
Martin bent towards me.
"Do you see that fellow sitting at the table to your right—a sunburnt chap with black hair? He is either my old friend, Dudley Wilmot, or his ghost. I have not seen Wilmot for years, and what brings him here now is more than I can imagine. When last we met he was in London, and he was as jolly a young fellow as you could find in a day's march, but as wild as a hawk. I believe he was guilty of some boyish escapade,
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