eg in his own rude way, and satisfied himself as to the
quantity of its contents, he had made a calculation of how long it might
last, and found that by a careful economy it could be depended upon for
a period of several weeks.

Reposing upon these pleasant data, on the night of the sixth day he had
gone to rest with a feeling of confidence that soon enticed his spirit
into the profoundest slumbers.

Not that Snowball had gone without sleep during the other five nights
spent upon his raft. He had slept a little on each of them. Only a
little, however; for, as most of them had been moonlight nights, he had
kept awake during the greater portion of each, on the lookout over the
surface of the ocean, lest some ship, sailing near, might glide past
silently and unseen, and so deprive him of a chance of being picked up.

The little Lalee had also borne part in these nocturnal vigils,--taking
her turn when Snowball became too weary to keep awake; and so, in
alternate watches, had the two been in the habit of tiring out the long
hours of the night. To this practice the sixth night had proved an
exception. There was no moon in the sky; there were no stars; not a
glimmer of light, either in the firmament of the heavens or on the face
of the deep. The sky above and the sea below were both of one colour,--
the hue of pitch. On such a night it was idle to keep watch. A ship
might have passed within a cable's length of the raft, and still
remained unseen; and, filled with this conviction, both Snowball and his
companion, after the night had fairly closed over them, stretched their
bodies along the pieces of sail-cloth that formed their respective
couches, and surrendered their spirits to the sweet enchantment of
sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE FLASH OF LIGHTNING.

Snowball began to snore almost as soon as he had closed his eyelids, and
as if the shutting of his eyes had either occasioned or strengthened the
current of breath through his nostrils.

And such a sound as the snore of the Coromantee was rarely heard upon
the ocean,--except in the "spouting" of a whale or the "blowing" of a
porpoise.

It did not wake the little Lalee. She had become accustomed to the
snoring of Snowball,--which, instead of being a disturber, acted rather
as a lullaby to her rest.

It was only after both had been asleep for many hours after midnight,--
in fact when Lalee was herself sleeping less soundly, and when a snore,
more prolonged