me quarter, which chances to be the right one.

After staying an hour or so on deck, indulging in cheerful converse, and
happy anticipations, the tropic sun, grown too sultry for comfort,
drives them down to the cabin, for shade and _siesta_--this last, a
habit of all Spanish-Americans.

The Chilian skipper is also accustomed to take his afternoon nap; and
this day, in particular, there is no need for his remaining longer on
deck. He has determined his latitude, cast up his dead-reckoning, and
set the _Condor_ on her course. Sailing on a sea without icebergs, or
other dangerous obstructions, he can go to sleep without anxiety on his
mind.

So, leaving his second mate in charge--the first being off-watch--he
descends to the cabin, and enters his sleeping-room on the starboard
side.

But before lying down, he summons the cook, and gives orders for a
dinner--to be dressed in the very best style the ship's stores can
furnish; this in celebration of the event of having sighted land.

Then, stretching himself along a sofa, he is soon slumbering;
profoundly, as one with nothing on his conscience to keep him awake.

For a time, the barque's decks appear deserted. No one seen, save the
helmsman at the wheel, and the second mate standing by his side. The
sailors not on duty have betaken themselves to the forecastle, and are
lolling in their bunks; while those of the working-watch--with no work
to do--have sought shady quarters, to escape from the sun's heat, now
excessive.

The breeze has been gradually dying away, and is now so light that the
vessel scarce makes steerage way. The only vigorous movements are those
made by the Bornean apes. To them the great heat, so far from being
disagreeable, is altogether congenial. They chase one another along the
decks, accompanying their grotesque romping by cries equally grotesque--
a hoarse jabbering, that sounds with weird strangeness throughout the
otherwise silent ship. Except this, everything is profoundly still; no
surging of waves, no rush of wind through the rigging, no booming of it
against the bellied sails; only now and then a flap of one blown back,
and aboard. The breeze has fallen to "light;" and the _Condor_, though
with all canvas spread, and studding-sails out, is scarce making two
knots an hour. This too with the wind well upon her quarter.

Still, there is nothing strange about the barque making so little way.
What is strange, is the direction in which