was
surely fine weather, and the steward, in token of the same, was trying to
catch fluttering Cape pigeons with a bent pin on a piece of thread.

For'ard, on the poop, I encountered Mr. Pike. It _was_ an encounter, for
his salutation was a grunt.

"Well, we're going right along," I ventured cheerily.

He made no reply, but turned and stared into the gray south-west with an
expression sourer than any I had ever seen on his face. He mumbled
something I failed to catch, and, on my asking him to repeat it, he said:

"It's breeding weather. Can't you see it?"

I shook my head.

"What d'ye think we're taking off the kites for?" he growled.

I looked aloft. The skysails were already furled; men were furling the
royals; and the topgallant-yards were running down while clewlines and
buntlines bagged the canvas. Yet, if anything, our northerly breeze
fanned even more gently.

"Bless me if I can see any weather," I said.

"Then go and take a look at the barometer," he grunted, as he turned on
his heel and swung away from me.

In the chart-room was Captain West, pulling on his long sea-boots. That
would have told me had there been no barometer, though the barometer was
eloquent enough of itself. The night before it had stood at 30.10. It
was now 28.64. Even in the pampero it had not been so low as that.

"The usual Cape Horn programme," Captain West smiled to me, as he stood
up in all his lean and slender gracefulness and reached for his long
oilskin coat.

Still I could scarcely believe.

"Is it very far away?" I inquired.

He shook his head, and forebore in the act of speaking to lift his hand
for me to listen. The _Elsinore_ rolled uneasily, and from without came
the soft and hollow thunder of sails emptying themselves against the
masts and gear.

We had chatted a bare five minutes, when again he lifted his head. This
time the _Elsinore_ heeled over slightly and remained heeled over, while
the sighing whistle of a rising breeze awoke in the rigging.

"It's beginning to make," he said, in the good old Anglo-Saxon of the
sea.

And then I heard Mr. Pike snarling out orders, and in my heart discovered
a growing respect for Cape Horn--Cape Stiff, as the sailors call it.

An hour later we were hove to on the port tack under upper-topsails and
foresail. The wind had come out of the south-west, and our leeway was
setting us down upon the land. Captain West gave orders to the mate to
stand by to wear