happy as his circumstances demanded, but after a while he would
attend better to that business. Now he was content to smoke his pipe,
and wait, and listen to the distant music from all the different kinds
of enjoyment which, in thought, were marching toward him. It was true he
was only beginning his long voyage to the land where he hoped to turn
his gold into available property. It was true that he might be murdered
that night, or some other night, and that when the brig, with its
golden cargo, reached port, he might not be in command of her. It was
true that a hundred things might happen to prevent the advancing
enjoyments from ever reaching him. But ill-omened chances threaten
everything that man is doing, or ever can do, and he would not let the
thought of them disturb him now.

Everybody on board the Miranda was glad to rest and be happy, according
to his methods and his powers of anticipation. As to any present
advantage from their success, there was none. The stones and sand they
had thrown out had ballasted the brig quite as well as did the gold they
now carried. This trite reflection forced itself upon the mind of Burke.

"Captain," said he, "don't you think it would be a good idea to touch
somewhere and lay in a store of fancy groceries and saloon-cabin grog? If
we can afford to be as jolly as we please, I don't see why we shouldn't
begin now."

But the captain shook his head. "It would be a dangerous thing," he said,
"to put into any port on the west coast of South America with our present
cargo on board. We can't make it look like ballast, as I expected we
could, for all that bagging gives it a big bulk, and if the custom-house
officers came on board, it would not do any good to tell them we are
sailing in ballast, if they happened to want to look below."

"Well, that may be so," said Burke. "But what I'd like would be to meet a
first-class, double-quick steamer, and buy her, put our treasure on
board, and then clap on all steam for France."

"All right," said the captain, "but we'll talk about that when we meet a
steamer for sale."

After a week had passed, and he had begun to feel the advantages of rest
and relief from anxiety, Captain Horn regretted nothing so much as that
the _Miranda_ was not a steamer, ploughing her swift way over the seas.
It must be a long, long time before he could reach those whom he supposed
and hoped were waiting for him in France. It had already been a long,
long time since