The castaways lay silent. Not a breath stirred the air; everything seemed motionless with the exception of the long, stately swell of the restless ocean.
Suddenly the universal quiet was broken. Over the water came the quaint wild cry of a Mother Carey's chicken, and two or three of these small flitters were perceived hovering around.
"Mebbe there's some island hereabouts with them birds so handy," suggested Broncho, aroused out of his lethargy by the queer note.
"I'm afraid not," replied Jack. "I don't like to hear a Mother Carey's chicken give tongue, though; it generally means a long spell of calm weather."
"Why, oughtn't we to pick up the south-east trades directly?" inquired Jim.
"Never can tell nowadays; we may have more than we want of the doldrums. The current seems to be setting us to the westward, also."
"It certainly is some lackin' in wind," muttered Broncho sleepily, as he stretched himself in the shade of the sail for a snooze.
The drowsy afternoon passed slowly. Forward the two Islanders slept peacefully; Jim nodded, curled up against the rover's knees; and the latter sat idly handling the steering-oar, puffing meditatively at his pipe. Only the wild cry of the restless harbingers of calm broke the stillness.
Occasionally a flight of startled flying-fish burst forth from beneath the shadow of the whaleboat, and, skipping along the surface, presently plunged out of sight again with tiny splashes.
Once a line of porpoises passed, leaping forth each in turn with steady regularity, their polished black bodies gleaming as they curved in and out.