her cabin; and although these have not shown themselves on
deck, he knows they are safe, and well waited on by the black cook; who
is also steward, and who, under his rough sable skin, has a kindly,
gentle heart.

It is when thinking of his cabin passengers, that the _Condor's_ first
officer feels apprehensive, and then not from the incapacity of her
sailors, but their bold, indeed almost insolent, behaviour. Their
having shown something of this at first might have been excusable, or at
all events, capable of explanation. They had not yet sobered down.
Fresh from the streets of San Francisco, so lawless and licentious, it
could not be expected. But most of them have been now some days
aboard--no drink allowed them save the regular ration, with plenty of
everything else. Kind treatment from captain and mate, and still they
appear scowling and discontented, as if the slightest slur--an angry
word, even a look--would make mutiny among them.

What can it mean? What do the men want?

A score of times has Harry Blew thus interrogated himself, without
receiving satisfactory answer. It is to obtain this, he is now gliding
silently about the decks, and here and there concealing himself in
shadow, with the hope of overhearing some speech that will give him
explanation of the conspiracy--if conspiracy it be.

And in this hope he is not deceived or disappointed, but successful
beyond his most sanguine expectations. For he at length obtains a clue,
not _only_ to the insubordination of the sailors, but all else that has
been puzzling him.

And a strange problem it is, its solution appalling.

He gets the latter while standing under a piece of sailcloth, spread
from the rail to the top of the round-house--rigged up by the carpenter
as a sun screen, while doing some work during the heat of the day, and
so left. The sky being now starless and pitch-black, with this
additional obstruction to light, Harry Blew stands in obscurity
impenetrable to the eye. A man passing, so close as almost to touch,
could not possibly see him.

Nor is he seen by two men, who, like himself, sauntering about, have
come to a stop under the spread canvas. Unlike him, however, they are
not silent, but engaged in conversation, in a low tone, still loud
enough for him to hear every word said. And to every one he listens
with interest so engrossing, that his breath is well nigh suspended.

He understands what is said; all the easier from their t