ose part they had taken, he bows a courteous farewell, and continues
his interrupted walk along the Hard.

"Guess you didn't get much sleep," observes the young American, with a
knowing smile, to Henry Chester.

"Who told you I was asleep?" replies the latter in some surprise.

"Who? Nobody."

"How came you to know it, then?"

"How? Wasn't I up in the maintop, and didn't I see everything you did?
And you behaved particularly well, I must say. But come! Let's aboard.
The captain has come back. He's my father, and maybe we can find a
berth for you on the _Calypso_. Come along!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night Henry Chester eats supper at the _Calypso's_ cabin table, by
invitation of the captain's son, sleeps on board, and, better still, has
his name entered on her books as an apprentice.

And he finds her just the sort of craft he was desirous to go to sea
in--a general trader, bound for the Oriental Archipelago and the isles
of the Pacific Ocean. To crown all, she has completed her cargo and is
ready to put to sea.

Sail she does, early the next day, barely leaving him time to keep that
promise, made by the Devil's Punch Bowl, of writing to his mother.

CHAPTER FOUR.

OFF THE "FURIES."

A ship tempest-tossed, labouring amid the surges of an angry sea; her
crew on the alert, doing their utmost to keep her off a lee-shore. And
such a shore! None more dangerous on all ocean's edge; for it is the
west coast of Tierra del Fuego, abreast the Fury Isles and that long
belt of seething breakers known to mariners as the "Milky Way," the same
of which the great naturalist, Darwin, has said: "One sight of such a
coast is enough to make a landsman dream for a week about shipwreck,
peril, and death."

There is no landsman in the ship now exposed to its dangers. All on
board are familiar with the sea--have spent years upon it. Yet is there
fear in their hearts and pallor on their cheeks, as their eyes turn to
that belt of white frothy water between them and the land, trending
north and south beyond the range of vision.

Technically speaking, the endangered vessel is not a ship, but a barque,
as betokened by the fore-and-aft rig of her mizenmast. Nor is she of
large dimensions; only some six or seven hundred tons. But the reader
knows this already, or will, after learning her name. As her stern
swings up on the billow, there can be read upon it the