od, poor tobacco, and
evil-smelling tramps. It took a deal of thought to cast a
comprehensive cable, for it had to include where Spurlock was, what
he was doing, and the fact that O'Higgins's letter of credit would
not now carry him and Spurlock to San Francisco. The reply he
received this time put him into a state of continuous bewilderment.

"Good work. Come home alone."

CHAPTER XX

To Spurlock it seemed as if a great iron door had swung in behind
him, shutting out the old world. He was safe, out of the beaten
track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. The
terrific mental tension of the past few months--that had held his
bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation--became as a dream;
and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. On the second
day out he was helped to a steamer-chair on deck; on the third day,
his arm across Ruth's shoulder, he walked from his chair to the
foremast and back. The will to live had returned.

For five days _The Tigress_ chugged her way across the burnished
South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her
destiny. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new
thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally
she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they
called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and
threatened to ruin her temper.

On the sixth day, however, they made the strong southwest trade,
and broke out the canvas, stout if dirty; and _The Tigress_
answered as a bird released. Taking the wind was her business in
life. She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way
of yawning when she awoke.

The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the
foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over
him. Rather a hazardous spot for a convalescent, and McClintock had
been doubtful at first; but Spurlock declared that he was a good
sailor, which was true. He loved the sea, and could give a good
account of himself in any weather. And this was an adventure of
which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South
Seas.

There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical. There were swift
actions, too: a Kanaka crawled out upon the bowsprit to make taut a
slack stay, while two others with pulley-blocks swarmed aloft.
Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. The
sea was no longer rolling brass; it