ot and in the
cabin the atmosphere was sometimes stifling. However, the captain had
warned me to keep the fellow as quiet as possible and not to move him if
it could be helped before we reached our destination.

Old Tom sailed the sloop most of the time, and I gave my attention to
the wounded youth. But we tried to keep something like watch and watch.
We only slept by snatches, however, and never a cloud appeared in the
sky as big as a man's hand that we did not watch it cautiously. As for
sail, or steam, we saw neither till we raised the cloudy headland that
marked Cape St. Antonio on the skyline.

It was a pretty tame cruise to write about, for nothing really occurred.
We were only on the watch for some untoward happening; that made it
nerve wracking. But even when we sighted the spur of land which we knew
marked the southern boundary of the de la Plata--the widest mouth of any
river on the globe, for it is not masked by islands at all--we were not
out of danger. The peril of gales still menaced us. We had many miles to
sail yet before we reached Buenos Ayres.

Indeed, we got a stiff blow before sighting Point Piedras; but it
favored us after all, and the Wavecrest ran before it at a spanking
pace. We had sighted plenty of other craft now--both sail and steam. One
great, red-funneled steamship came in behind us, and at first we thought
it was making for Montevideo, which is on the northern side of the
river; but finally old Tom made out the steamer and what she was.

"It's one of the Bayne Line steamers from Boston," he declared. "I know
them red pipes. They touch at Para, Bahia, and other ports. She's bound
for Buenos Ayres now--no doubt of it."

The little squall that had kicked up something of a sea had now passed.
The great steamship overhauled us rapidly. I chanced to be at the helm
and I kept my head over my shoulder a good deal of the time, watching
the approach of the great, rusty-hulled craft. Somehow I felt as though
I had some connection with the boat. A foolish feeling, perhaps; yet I
could not shake it off.

The Wavecrest was bowling along nicely so I could give my attention to
the big ship, which I soon made out to be the Peveril. Old Tom was
right. She was one of the Bayne Line ships, coming from Boston--coming
from home, as you might say! To tell the truth, I was a good bit
home-sick.

I let my mind wander back to Bolderhead. Circumstances had made it
possible for me to leave the Scarboro, and