The night passed quietly with but little wind. Loyola insisted on again bearing Jack company in his lonely vigil from four to eight, and after breakfast these two lay down in the bottom of the boat and slept soundly till near midday, awaking to find a big change in the weather.
The whaleboat was going close-hauled into a dead head wind. She was right off her course, heading a point to the east of north.
The Pacific sparkled under the strength of the tropical sun, and there was a heavy swell running from the nor-west.
On different quarters of the horizon rain-squall clouds hovered black and wind-torn.
The breeze blew fitfully, and occasionally came in stronger puffs, which heeled the whaleboat over till her garboard streak showed to windward.
It had evidently been blowing hard somewhere below the north-west horizon, to account for the long hills of water rolling in from that direction.
The atmosphere seemed very clear, and the surf, breaking on a line of reef about a mile to the north, showed up plainly, as if it was only a cable-length off.
In the west the rain was falling heavily and the sea was torn up by it, a well-defined line of white water denoting the edge of the squall.
Loyola, with the first instinct of a sailor, took a keen look to windward as she rose from her recumbent position.
"We're going to have a blow," she announced quietly, turning to the rolling-stone, who was slowly filling his pipe with a clumsiness caused by his blindness.