"Not this trip, I reckon," said the third mate, joining them.
"Why?"
The third mate turned and pointed to leeward. The line of coast had already sunk enough to permit the faint silhouette of a trail of smoke to define the horizon line of sky.
"Steamer goin' in, eh?"
"Yes. D'ye see—it might be too hot, in there!"
"Then the jig's up?"
"No. Suthin's to be done—north of St. Lucas. Hush!"
He made a gesture of silence, although the conversation, since he had joined them, had been carried on in a continuous whisper. A figure, evidently a passenger, had appeared on deck. One or two of the foreign-looking crew who had drawn near the group, with a certain undue and irregular familiarity, now slunk away again.
The passenger was a shrewd, exact, rectangular-looking man, who had evidently never entirely succumbed to the freedom of the sea either in his appearance or habits. He had not even his sea legs yet; and as the barque, with the full swell of the Pacific now on her weather bow, was plunging uncomfortably, he was fain to cling to the stanchions. This did not, however, prevent him from noticing the change in her position, and captiously resenting it.
"Look here—you; I say! What have we turned round for? We're going away from the land! Ain't we going on to Mazatlan?"