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The pleasant breeze of the morning had passed away, and was succeeded by a dead calm. Not a breath of air rippled the surface of the deep; the sails lay flapping idly against the masts; the crew lay, gasping for breath, over the side of the ship. The sun, with its fiery, brassy glow, glared in the cloudless sky, loosening the very seams of the ship with the scorching heat, until everything looked parched and burning. The vessel lay motionless on the glittering sea, her masts and ropes reflected on the polished surface, as in a mirror. One could almost imagine her to be a painted ship on a painted ocean—so still, so lifeless, so sluggard was the calm.

The old tar addressed gave his trousers a hitch, turned an enormous quid of tobacco into the other cheek, and replied only by a dissatisfied growl.

"I'm fairly choking for breath," went on Gus, leaning over the bulwarks in the vain endeavor to catch a mouthful of air; "I wish to heaven a breeze would spring up."

"Humph!" grunted the old tar, as he discharged an enormous stream of tobacco-juice over the side, "you'll have your wish before you sleep, youngster, or I'm mistaken."