ir, and the brig
made the most of them.

The weather grew steadily cooler; the brilliant tropics were left
behind, and they entered the gray wastes of the North Pacific. Forward
and aft were smiling faces and optimistic prophecies, for the ship was
making a record passage. The captain's original estimate of seventy
days between departure and landfall was steadily pared by the hopeful
ones. The boatswain, especially, was delighted.

"Seventy days! Huh!" he declared. "Why, swiggle me stiff, we'll take
the days off that, or my name ain't Tom 'Enery! 'Ere we are, forty-one
days out, an' already we're in sight o' ice, an' runnin' free over the
nawstiest bit o' water between 'ere an' the 'Orn! It'll be Bering Sea
afore the week out, lad! And afore another week, we'll 'ave fetched
the bloody wolcano and got away again with that grease! Bob Carew?
Huh--the _Dawn_ may 'ave the 'eels of us--though, swiggle me, what with
my moons'il, an' that balloon jib, I'd want a tryout afore admitting it
final--but it ain't on the cards that Carew 'as 'ad our luck with the
winds. 'E's somewhere a week or two astern o' us, I bet. We'll 'ave
the bleedin' swag, an' be 'alf way 'ome, before 'e lifts Fire
Mountain--if he does know where the bloomin' place is!

"Ow, lad, just think o' all that money in a lump o' ruddy grease! Ow,
what a snorkin' fine time I'll 'ave, when we get back to Frisco! 'Am
an' eggs, an' a bottle o' wine every bloomin' meal for a week! Regular
toff, I'll be, swiggle me--with one of them fancy girls adancin', and
one o' them longhaired blokes afiddlin' while I scoffs!"

Only old Sails declined to be heartened by bright expectations. He
wagged his gray head solemnly.

"The passage is no made till we are standing off yon Island," he warned
Martin. "Aye, well I remember the smoking mountain. Didna' that big,
red loon aft split a new t'gan'-s'il the very next day, wi' his crazy
carrying on of sail? Aye, I mind the place--a drear place, lad, wi' an
evil face. I dinna like to see the lassie gang ashore there, for all
the siller ye say the stuff is worth, an' I ken well she'll be in the
first boat. 'Tis a wicked place, the fire mount, and I ha' dreamed
thrice o' the feyed. Nay, I'll tell ye no more, lad. But do you give
no mind to yon talk o' Bob Carew being left behind. He is the de'il's
son, and the old boy helps his own. But keep ye a sharp eye on the
lass."

No more than this half mystical jargon co