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"Wolverton is no place for you," declared his father. "Mother and I will talk it over, Walter, and I shall find out what I can. You have made us feel rather dizzy. We can't realize that you are no longer a little boy."

"My Salem great-grandfather went to sea when he was fourteen and was mate of an East-Indiaman at my age, and captain of her at twenty-one," stoutly quoth Walter.

"And be sure to write just how the Southern Cross looks to you," earnestly put in Eleanor.

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The steamer Saragossa was sliding across a tropic sea where the trade-wind blew cool and steady to temper the blazing sun, the flying-fish skittered from the lazy swells like flights of silver arrows, and the stars by night seemed very bright and near. On the shady side of the promenade deck a boyish-looking member of the crew was scrubbing rust spots from the planking with a certain gusto which distinguished him from the so-called seamen, who were a sorry lot. The rough company and bullying usages of the forecastle had not dismayed Walter Goodwin, who forgot discomfort in the thought that, day by day, he was nearing the magical Isthmus. His parents' consent had been won and this was his great chance.