“And the barque under all sail.”
“Well, I take it, they were hurried, and of course expected she’d soon go to the bottom. Strange she didn’t. No doubt she’s met only smooth weather till we came aboard her.”
“I wonder where her log-book can be?”
“Not more than I. The old darkey says it used to lie on a little shelf at the turning of the cabin-stair. I’ve looked there, but no log-book. As you say, it’s enough to make one believe the Fates were against us. If so, we may never reach Panama, much less live to—”
“See,” cries Cadwallader, interrupting the despairing speech. “Those brutes! what’s that they’re knocking about? By Jove! I believe it’s the very thing we’re speaking of!”
The brutes are the Myas monkeys, that, away in the ship’s waist, are tossing something between them; apparently a large book bound in rough red leather. They have mutilated the binding, and, with teeth and claws, are tearing out the leaves, as they strive to take it from one another.
“It is—it must be the log-book!” cries Crozier, as both rush off to rescue it from the clutch of the orangs.
They succeed; but not without difficulty, and a free handling of handspikes—almost braining the apes before they consent to relinquish it.
It is at length recovered, though in a ruinous condition; fortunately, however, with the written leaves untorn. Upon the last of these is an entry, evidently the latest made:
“Latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North; Longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West. Light breeze.”