's enough to make one believe the Fates were against us.
If so, we may never reach Panama, much less live to--"

"See," cries Cadwallader, interrupting the despairing speech. "Those
brutes! what's that they're knocking about? By Jove! I believe it's
the very thing we're speaking of!"

The brutes are the Myas monkeys, that, away in the ship's waist, are
tossing something between them; apparently a large book bound in rough
red leather. They have mutilated the binding, and, with teeth and
claws, are tearing out the leaves, as they strive to take it from one
another.

"It is--it must be the log-book!" cries Crozier, as both rush off to
rescue it from the clutch of the orangs.

They succeed; but not without difficulty, and a free handling of
handspikes--almost braining the apes before they consent to relinquish
it.

It is at length recovered, though in a ruinous condition; fortunately,
however, with the written leaves untorn. Upon the last of these is an
entry, evidently the latest made:

"Latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North; Longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes
West. Light breeze."

"Good!" exclaims Crozier, rushing back to the quarterdeck, and bending
over the chart. "With this, and the double-headed hill, we may get upon
the track of the despoilers. Just when we were despairing! Will, old
boy; there's something in this. I have a presentiment that things are
taking a turn, and the _Fates will yet be or us_."

"God grant they may!"

"Ah?" sighs Crozier: "if we had but ten men aboard this barque--or even
six--I'd never think of going on to Panama, but steer straight for the
island of Coiba."

"Why the island of Coiba?" wonderingly asks Cadwallader.

"Because it must have been in sight when this entry was made--either it
or Hicaron, which lies on its sou'west side. Look at this chart; there
they are!"

The midshipman bends over the map, and scans it.

"You're right, Ned. They must have seen one or other of those islands,
when the Chilian skipper made his last observation."

"Just so. And with a light breeze she couldn't have made much way
after. Both the cook and Don Gregorio say it was that. Oh! for ten
good hands. A thousand pounds apiece for ten stout, trusty fellows!
What a pity in that squall the cutter's crew weren't left along with
us."

"Never fear, Ned. We'll get them again, or as good. Old Bracebridge
won't fail us, I'm sure. He's a dear old soul, and when he hears the
tale we've