Trask followed the captain up the companion and left Marjorie and
her father below, until he was called to have his coffee. When
they went on deck again Corregidor Island was astern, rising out of
the channel like a derelict battleship.

To starboard, close aboard beyond the stretch of sun-dazzled sea,
was the coast of Bataan, with the brown fuzzy mountains behind
Mariveles shouldering into the sky. Point Luzon marked the limit of
the land over the starboard bow, and on the port side the shining
China Sea reached away to the horizon.

The jib and foresail were already set although the tug had not cast
off. Soon they began to fill, and as Peth bawled to the tug, the
hawser was dropped, and tooting a farewell, the little boat swung
in a wide arc and headed back for Manila.

Peth came aft and routed Doc Bird from under the mainsail boom
where the steward sat peeling potatoes. Dinshaw kept moving about,
repeating the orders of the mate, or talking to himself.

The crew were all white, in accordance with the orders of Locke,
who had declared that he did not want to undertake the voyage with
natives forward.

The breeze from landward died as the main was being set, and the
_Nuestra_ began to roll gently as she fell off. For a few minutes
she threatened to follow the tug back to Manila, with many lurches
and angry snappings of blocks.

"We'll git a clinkin' good breeze from the south'ard when we're off
the land," said Jarrow, glancing aloft to the windvane on the
mizzen truck. It was flopping about like a dead fish on a gaff.

Before long the foresail began to fret its sheets, and Bevins got
her head to seaward. Then there came from astern a hot, puffy
breeze, and the schooner stood out on a port tack, curvetting
prettily as her sails were trimmed and filled.

One of the crew, hailed as Pennock, now came aft and took the
wheel, and Bevins went forward. Captain Dinshaw went into the
cabin, and looking down, Trask could see him bent over the table,
sucking a stub of a pencil and studying a sheet of paper.

"What's the bearin' and distance of Point Luzon?" he called up the
companion.

Jarrow looked at Locke and smiled.

"Northwest, five miles," called Jarrow, after a look at the compass
and the land.

"What course ye steerin'?"

"Nor'wes'bywes'."

"Variation, one degree east," remarked Dinshaw, and went back to
his figuring, talking to himself and scratching his head. From his
conduct since sailing it was obvi