e right to command; but this dispute had been settled, and new
causes of difficulty had appeared every moment. But now the
conspirators were very quiet, and Paul perceived that they had come to
realize the full peril of their position. He could hear their low and
earnest tones, as they consulted together in the standing room. More
than once he had heard his own name mentioned, but he could not hear
enough of the conversation to determine what they intended to do with
him. We will leave Paul and his fellow-prisoner below for a time, and
notice the condition of things on deck.

The weather was decidedly threatening. The wind was increasing in
violence, and there was a heavy sea. In short there was every indication
of a regular northeaster. Tom Nettle had the helm, but his face no
longer wore the confident assurance which had given him the victory over
his rival in the contest for the command, and which had strengthened the
doubting hearts of his more timid followers. His eye was restless, and
his movements uneasy. He was not a stupid boy--only a reckless one; and
he could not help seeing that he was leading those who had trusted in
him into hardship and perils which neither party had foreseen.

The Flyaway was lying close to the wind, under jib and mainsail, and was
completely enveloped in the dense fog that covered the ocean. Her
bowsprit was slapping the waves, and the spray sweeping the entire
length of the deck. Frank Thompson was lying out upon the bowsprit, wet
to the skin, peering through the fog to give timely notice of breakers,
or of any vessel which might lie in the path of the yacht. The rest of
the crew were seated in the standing room, most of them engaged in
watching the anxious face of Tom Nettle, whose boasted seamanship was
now put to the severest test.

The Flyaway dashed on, and the faces of the rebel crew became more and
more anxious every moment. Another hour elapsed, and the wind continued
to freshen, and the sea to rise. Dense volumes of fog rolled by the
vessel, and the mutineers were all wet to the skin. John Duncan was the
only one who seemed to enjoy the scene, and it was evident at times that
even he had some painful misgivings in regard to the future.

"Hard a-lee! hard a-lee!" shouted Frank, suddenly jumping down from the
bowsprit, and making the most violent gestures.

Tom, startled and confused by the frantic movements of Frank,
unfortunately put the helm the wrong way; and the yacht,