whole day went by; then two days; then a
week,--ten days, and the wind grew no stronger. The Curlew just dawdled
along at the speed of a toddling babe.

I now saw that the Doctor was becoming uneasy. He kept getting out his
sextant (an instrument which tells you what part of the ocean you are
in) and making calculations. He was forever looking at his maps and
measuring distances on them. The far edge of the sea, all around us, he
examined with his telescope a hundred times a day.

"But Doctor," I said when I found him one afternoon mumbling to himself
about the misty appearance of the sky, "it wouldn't matter so much would
it, if we did take a little longer over the trip? We've got plenty to
eat on board now; and the Purple Bird-of-Paradise will know that we have
been delayed by something that we couldn't help."

"Yes, I suppose so," he said thoughtfully. "But I hate to keep her
waiting. At this season of the year she generally goes to the Peruvian
mountains--for her health. And besides, the good weather she prophesied
is likely to end any day now and delay us still further. If we could
only keep moving at even a fair speed, I wouldn't mind. It's this
hanging around, almost dead still, that gets me restless--Ah, here comes
a wind--Not very strong--but maybe it'll grow."

A gentle breeze from the Northeast came singing through the ropes; and
we smiled up hopefully at the Curlew's leaning masts.

"We've only got another hundred and fifty miles to make, to sight the
coast of Brazil," said the Doctor. "If that wind would just stay with
us, steady, for a full day we'd see land."

But suddenly the wind changed, swung to the East, then back to the
Northeast--then to the North. It came in fitful gusts, as though it
hadn't made up its mind which way to blow; and I was kept busy at the
wheel, swinging the Curlew this way and that to keep the right side of
it.

Presently we heard Polynesia, who was in the rigging keeping a look-out
for land or passing ships, screech down to us,

"Bad weather coming. That jumpy wind is an ugly sign. And look!--over
there in the East--see that black line, low down? If that isn't a
storm I'm a land-lubber. The gales round here are fierce, when they do
blow--tear your canvas out like paper. You take the wheel, Doctor:
it'll need a strong arm if it's a real storm. I'll go wake Bumpo and
Chee-Chee. This looks bad to me. We'd best get all the sail down right
away, till we see how strong she's g