Detroit, and replenished in several places on the route to the South.
Others were playing various games. Mr. Tiffany and my father could play
chess all day long, and most of the night. The meals were served as
elaborately as at a first-class hotel, and we had everything from the
market that could be supplied in the summer in the northern states. I
was decidedly of the opinion that our passengers had nothing to worry
about, unless Colonel Shepard could be excused for worrying about his
steamer.

At eight o'clock the first watch went on duty, in charge of Washburn,
who was as competent to handle the vessel as I was. He had the chart,
with the courses and distances marked on it. When I left the
pilot-house, Cape Canaveral, or rather the light on it, was in sight.
At nine o'clock we were just abreast of it, which proved that our dead
reckoning was correct. From this point the course was south by east,
one hundred and five miles.

As soon as the Sylvania was on her new course, I left the pilot-house,
where I had gone at nine, and turned in. I had slept all the night
before, and the laughter of the younger of the passengers on the
hurricane-deck above me did not permit me to sleep. But I heard Colonel
Shepard call his daughter away at ten, and then I went to sleep. I
could not tell how long I had slept when the stopping of the steamer
waked me.

"What schooner is that?" shouted Washburn, from the pilot-house.

I was on deck soon enough to hear the reply.

"The Violet, New Orleans to New York," came from the vessel hailed.

"Did you see a small steamer about the size of this one?" asked
Washburn.

"We passed one about three hours ago. She looked enough like you to be
the same vessel."

"Thanks," shouted Washburn, as he rang the bell to go ahead.

I looked at my watch, and found it wanted but a few minutes of twelve,
and I went into the pilot-house.

CHAPTER XI.

DIFFICULT NAVIGATION.

"Three hours ago, which means that the Islander is about thirty miles
ahead of us," said Washburn, when I went into the pilot-house.

"She must have put in somewhere, and it was not at Mosquito Inlet," I
replied. "I don't quite understand it."

"I think I do," added Washburn, as he called in Buck Lingley and gave
him the wheel.

He led the way to the chart on the shelf, upon which a light was cast
from the binnacle. He pointed out Matanzas Inlet, at the southern point
of Anastasia Island, and fifteen miles south of St.