a thorough examination of the cargo made before the holds are finally
battened down for the voyage, Frascuelo might now be in a tight place
in more than one sense."

Dr. Christobal was proud of his idiomatic English. He spoke the
language with the careless freedom of a Londoner.

"Frascuelo seems to have passed an eventful day," said the little
French Comte, who had been waiting anxiously for a chance to join in
the conversation.

"But why should he want to kill poor Mr. Boyle?" inquired Isobel, after
giving the Frenchman an encouraging glance. Incidentally, she smiled
at Elsie. "Why puzzle one's brains over foreign tongues when all the
world speaks English?" she telegraphed.

"Mr. Boyle is a peculiar person," said the doctor dryly. "I happen to
have known him during some years. You and I might regard him as a man
of few words, but he has acquired a wonderful vocabulary for the
benefit of sailor-men. I believe he can swear in every known lingo.
His accomplishment in that direction no doubt annoyed Frascuelo, who
became frantic when he heard that the ship would not call at any South
American port. I imagine, too, that the unfortunate fellow is still
suffering from the drug which, he says, was administered to him.
Anyhow, you know how the affair terminated."

"I, for one, think some consideration might have been shown him," said
Elsie.

"There is no time for argument when a Chilean draws a knife, Miss
Maxwell."

"But, if his story is true--"

"There never yet was a stowaway who did not invent a plausible yarn.
Nevertheless, I believe, and Mr. Boyle agrees with me, that the man is
not lying."

They felt the ship swing round on a new course, and the rays of the
setting sun lit up the saloon table through the open starboard ports.

"Due south now, ladies!" cried Dr. Christobal cheerily. "We have
rounded Cape Cardones. We practically follow the seventy-sixth degree
until we approach Evangelistas Island. Thus far we are in the open
sea. Then we pick our way through the Straits discovered by that
daring Portuguese, Fernando de Magallanes, to whose memory I always
drink heartily once we are clear of the Cape of the Eleven Thousand
Virgins. I never pass through that gloomy defile without marveling at
his courage, and thinking that he deserved a better fate than murder at
the hands of some painted savage in the Philippines. Peace be to his
ashes!"

And the doctor lifted his glass of red wine with a qu