It was a sultry summer morning. The rays of the sun beat down with merciless power through an atmosphere which was saturated with humidity. The sea, flashing in long slanting lines of dazzling silver, melted away in the distance into a cloud of thick yellowish haze. There was no horizon-line, for this haze hung downward from the sky like a veil. It seemed to grow thicker and more dingy in appearance from hour to hour, and as it did so the atmosphere became more and more oppressive. The sunlight, which had blazed in clear white glory early in the day, became yellow and faint, but its heat did not diminish. On the contrary, it seemed to grow greater every minute. The sky had been a deep luminous blue early in the morning, but at eight o'clock great tufted white clouds, looking like gigantic masses of white cotton sailing through the air, began to rise out of the west. After a time they seemed to draw parts of the low haze upward with them, and hence, now and then, a dark shadow appeared among the expanses of white. The light breeze from the west was soft and hot, as if it had passed over a great lake of warm water. In short, it was one of those mornings which precede an afternoon of thunder-showers and squalls. The fishing-boats were close to the beach, and the fishermen were watching the western sky closely, not wishing to be taken unawares by some sudden development of troublesome weather. Henry Hovey and his brother George voted that it was altogether too hot and stuffy to stay in the house, and they felt sure that, with so many indications of weather, their friend, the Old Sailor, would be down at the pier gazing out upon the ocean. Accordingly they set out for the pier, and there, as they had expected, they saw the experienced mariner sitting in his accustomed place. About two miles off shore there was a handsome iron bark drifting slowly along, clothed with snowy canvas to the very summits of her tall masts. Her long powerful hull was painted a light salmon tint, and was decorated with a broad lead-colored stripe marked with false port-holes. The gilded figure of a rampant unicorn could be distinguished under her bowsprit, while here and there along her deck the glitter of brass-work told that she was a highly finished craft. The Old Sailor was gazing at her intently, and, as the boys paused beside him, without turning his head or seeming to know that they were there, he suddenly said, "An' wot kind o' wessel might that be?" "That," answered Henry, "is an iron or steel bark." "Werry good, too," commented the Old Sailor. "An' wot canvas are she a-carryin' of?" "Everything that will draw with a light wind abeam," said George, "even to a main-skysail." "Werry good, too," declared the Old Sailor. "An' w'ich way are she a-headin'?" "A little to the eastward of south, I should say," replied Henry.