The American had seen many such sunsets and he knew their meaning. After a keen look at the steel-blue cloud that was showing up over the spot where the sun had disappeared, he answered the officer. “Yes, Mr. Dunton, it certainly looks as if we were in for one of our summer tempests. I don’t like the look of that cloud.” “There is not a breath of air at present, Mayo.” “No, sir; that is one of the signs of a tempest in this locality. It may not come up until midnight, but we are going to have it before tomorrow morning.” “This is not very safe holding ground in case of a blow,” said Dunton somewhat anxiously. “That’s so, Mr. Dunton.” “Well, I’m going below, Mayo, and I want you to remain on deck and watch for a puff that may enable us to get into a better anchorage.” “Very good, sir; I shall call you when it comes.” After Dunton went below Hoppy felt inclined to dance a jig on the deck. Perhaps, after all, his expectations would be fulfilled? Was not this tempest the one thing wanting to hasten the success of the scheme which his wily brain had fashioned during the days of his captivity on the schooner? Twenty-three to one were the odds against him up to this, but with a roaring blow from the northwest as an ally he felt as if he had more than a fighting chance. One blast from the trumpet of the Lord would open the floodgates of the heavens and the pilot’s unerring eye had read the message of promise written in the evening sky! Two junior officers, three seamen and Hoppy made up the watch on deck. One of the seamen, a chap named Jackson, was especially friendly with the pilot and had a great contempt for Dunton. Jackson was a typical old salt; a fine seaman who had spent the greater part of his life in the navy, but he had reached the limit of promotion when he got his rating as able seaman. His fondness for grog had kept him back, though he would not admit the impeachment, preferring to put the blame on his want of influence with such officers as Dunton who, he confided to Hoppy, had a man at their mercy if they took a dislike to him. It was now quite dark and Hoppy, unseen by the officers, managed to have a few words with Jackson. “I guess you’re getting about sick of the calm, Jackson? Looks like a change, though.” “Yes, mate,” replied Jackson, “I am. I’m sick of the whole d----d business. There ain’t no glory an’ there ain’t no prize-money in this here war. Settin’ British sailors to such work as ketchin’ rowboats an’ fishin’ schooners an’ then makin’ headquarters in a town that ain’t got a decent grogshop ain’t wot we was used to in the navy.” “’Tis certainly poor work for brave men, Jackson.” “That it is,” assented Jackson vehemently. “Well, Jackson, as the commanding officer has ordered me to remain on deck to watch with you, I don’t see why we shouldn’t be as comfortable as we can make ourselves. What do you say to this?” Hoppy produced a flask of rum.