rdingly. The conversion was effected on the day before leaving San
Francisco; so that the _Condor_, entering the Golden Gate a ship, stood
out of it a barque. As such she is now on the ocean, sailing southward
along the line of longitude 125 degrees West. In the usual track taken
by sailing-vessels between Upper California and the Isthmus, she has
westered, to get well clear of the coast, and catch the regular winds,
that, centuries ago, wafted the spice-laden Spanish galleons from the
Philippines to Acapulco. A steamer would hug the shore, keeping the
brown barren mountains of Lower California in view. Instead, the
_Condor_ has sheered wide from the land; and, in all probability, will
not again sight it till she's bearing up to Panama Bay.

It is the middle watch of the night--the first after leaving San
Francisco. Eight bells have sounded, and the chief mate is in charge,
the second having turned in, along with the division of crew allotted to
him. The sea is tranquil, the breeze light, blowing from the desired
quarter, so that there is nothing to call for any unusual vigilance.

True, the night is dark, but without portent of storm. It is, as Harry
Blew knows, only a thick rain-cloud, such as often shadows this part of
the Pacific.

But the darkness need not be dreaded. They are in too low a latitude to
encounter icebergs; and upon the wide waters of the South Sea there is
not much danger of collision with ships.

Notwithstanding these reasons for feeling secure, the chief officer of
the _Condor_ paces her decks with a brow clouded, as the heavens over
his head; while the glance of his eye betrays anxiety of no ordinary
kind. It cannot be from any apprehension about the weather. He does
not regard the sky, nor the sea, nor the sails. On the contrary, he
moves about, not with bold, manlike step, as one having command of a
vessel, but stealthily, now and then stopping and standing in crouched
attitude, within the deeper shadow thrown upon the decks by masts,
bulwarks, and boats. He seems less to occupy himself about the ropes,
spars, and sails, than the behaviour of those who work them. Not while
they are working them either, but more when they are straying idly along
the gangways, or clustered in some corner, and conversing. In short, he
appears to be playing spy on them.

For this he has his reasons. And for all good ones. Before leaving
port he had discovered the incapacity of the crew, so hasti