Part 40 (1/2)
”He has, certainly.”
”About the feet? They'll do, won't they? They're small enough, I should say.”
”Quite small enough; and those ankles are perfection. They ought to satisfy your Andalusian--almost flatter her.”
”Flatter her! I should think not. They might your Biscayan, with her big feet; but not Inez; who's got the tiniest little understandings I ever saw under the skirt of a petticoat--tall as she is.”
”Stuff!” scornfully retorts Crozier; ”that's a grand mistake people make about small feet. It's not the size, but the shape, that's to be admired. They should be in proportion to the rest of the body; otherwise they're a monstrosity--as among the Chinese, for instance.
And as for small feet in men, about which the French pride, and pinch themselves, why every tailor's got that.”
”Ha, ha ha!” laughs the young Welshman. ”A treatise on Orthopoedia, or whatever it's called. Well, I shall let the Chilena's feet stand, with the ankles too, and get Grummet to add on the toggery.”
”What if your _Chilena_ should chance to set eyes on the improved portrait? Remember we're to call at Valparaiso!”
”By Jove! I never thought of that.”
”If you should meet her, you'll do well to keep your s.h.i.+rt-sleeves down, or you may get the picture scratched--your cheeks along with it.”
”Bah! there's no danger of that. I don't expect ever to see that girl again--don't intend to. It wouldn't be fair, after giving that engagement ring to Inez. If we do put into Valparaiso, I'll stay aboard all the time the frigate's in port. That will insure against any--”
”_Land ho_!”
Their dialogue is interrupted. The lookout on the masthead has sighted Mauna-Loa.
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.
A CREW THAT MEANS MUTINY.
A s.h.i.+p sailing down the Pacific, on the line of longitude 125 degrees West. Technically speaking, not a _s.h.i.+p_, but a _barque_, as may be told by her mizzen-sails, set fore and aft.
Of all craft encountered on the ocean, there is none so symmetrically beautiful as the _barque_. Just as the name looks well on the page of poetry and romance, so is the reality itself on the surface of the sea.
The sight is simply perfection.
And about the vessel in question another graceful peculiarity is observable: her masts are of the special kind called _polacca_--in one piece from step to truck.
Such vessels are _common enough_ in the Mediterranean, and not rare in Spanish-American ports. They may be seen at Monte Video, Buenos Ayres, and Valparaiso--to which last this barque belongs. For she is Chilian built; her tall tapering masts made of trees from the ancient forests of Araucania. Painted upon the stern is the name _El Condor_; and she is the craft commanded by Captain Antonio Lantanas.
This may seem strange. In the harbour of San Francisco the _Condor_ was a s.h.i.+p. How can she now be a barque?
The answer is easy, as has been the transformation; and a word will explain it. For the working of her sails, a barque requires fewer hands than a s.h.i.+p. Finding himself with a short crew, Captain Lantanas has resorted to a stratagem, common in such cases, and converted his vessel accordingly. The conversion was effected on the day before leaving San Francisco; so that the _Condor_, entering the Golden Gate a s.h.i.+p, stood out of it a barque. As such she is now on the ocean, sailing southward along the line of longitude 125 degrees West. In the usual track taken by sailing-vessels between Upper California and the Isthmus, she has westered, to get well clear of the coast, and catch the regular winds, that, centuries ago, wafted the spice-laden Spanish galleons from the Philippines to Acapulco. A steamer would hug the sh.o.r.e, keeping the brown barren mountains of Lower California in view. Instead, the _Condor_ has sheered wide from the land; and, in all probability, will not again sight it till she's bearing up to Panama Bay.
It is the middle watch of the night--the first after leaving San Francisco. Eight bells have sounded, and the chief mate is in charge, the second having turned in, along with the division of crew allotted to him. The sea is tranquil, the breeze light, blowing from the desired quarter, so that there is nothing to call for any unusual vigilance.
True, the night is dark, but without portent of storm. It is, as Harry Blew knows, only a thick rain-cloud, such as often shadows this part of the Pacific.
But the darkness need not be dreaded. They are in too low a lat.i.tude to encounter icebergs; and upon the wide waters of the South Sea there is not much danger of collision with s.h.i.+ps.
Notwithstanding these reasons for feeling secure, the chief officer of the _Condor_ paces her decks with a brow clouded, as the heavens over his head; while the glance of his eye betrays anxiety of no ordinary kind. It cannot be from any apprehension about the weather. He does not regard the sky, nor the sea, nor the sails. On the contrary, he moves about, not with bold, manlike step, as one having command of a vessel, but stealthily, now and then stopping and standing in crouched att.i.tude, within the deeper shadow thrown upon the decks by masts, bulwarks, and boats. He seems less to occupy himself about the ropes, spars, and sails, than the behaviour of those who work them. Not while they are working them either, but more when they are straying idly along the gangways, or cl.u.s.tered in some corner, and conversing. In short, he appears to be playing spy on them.