hese
trades, to make the Siberian coast this time o' year. We're makin' a
good passage--swiggle me, if Carew an' his _Dawn_ 'ave won past, the
way we're sailin'! And the old man reckons seventy days, outside,
afore 'e makes 'is landfall o' Fire Mountain. Coming 'ome, now, will
be different. We'll sail the great circle, the course the mail-boats
follow, an' we'll likely make the passage in 'alf the time. We'll run
the easting down, up there in the 'igh latitudes with the westerlies
be'ind us."

They were bright, sunny days, those trade-wind days, and wonderful
nights. The ship practically sailed herself. A slackening and
tightening of sheets, night and morning, and a watch-end trimming of
yards, was all the labor required of the crew.

So, regular shipboard work, and Martin's education, went forward.
"Chips" plied his cunning hand outside his workshop door; "Sails"
spread his work upon the deck abaft the house.

A crusty, talkative, kind-hearted fellow was Sails. He was an old
Scot, named MacLean; and the native burr in his speech had been
softened by many years of roving. He always took particular pains to
inform any listener that he was a MacLean, and that the Clan MacLean
was beyond doubt the foremost, the oldest, and the best family that
favored this wretched, hopeless world with residence. He hinted darkly
at a villainous conspiracy that had deprived him of his estates and
lairdships in dear old Stornoway, Bonnie Scotland. He was a pessimist
of parts, and he furnished the needed shade that made brighter Martin's
carefree existence.

MacLean had followed Captain Dabney for six years--most of the crew
were even longer in the ship--and before joining the _Cohasset_, he
had, to Martin's intense interest, made a voyage with Wild Bob Carew.

"Och, lad, ye no ken the black heart o' the mon," he would say to
Martin. "Wild Bob! Tis 'Black Bob' they should call the caird. The
black-hearted robber! Aye, I sailed a voyage wi' the deil. Didna' he
beach me wi'oot a penny o' my pay on Puka Puka, in the Marquesas? An'
didna' I stop there, marooned wi' the natives, till Captain Dabney took
me off? Forty-six, five an' thrippence he robbed me of.

"I am a MacLean, and a Laird by rights, but I could no afoord the loss
o' that siller. Oh, he is the proud deil! His high stomach could no
stand my plain words. Forty quid, odd, he owed me, but I could no hold
my tongue when he raided the cutter and made off wi' t