Morning broke and showed the whaleboat floating a mere speck upon the heaving blue of the Pacific. At daylight they hoisted the lugsail, and steered north-east before a fresh south-westerly breeze, heading for Pitcairn Island. Jack, with pencil and paper, worked out his dead reckoning, and calculated the distance to the island; but his great hope was being picked up by a passing vessel, as he was so uncertain about his longitude. Having got his position to the best of his ability, he arranged a scale and regular allowance of food and water, which he personally served out, the others trusting themselves entirely to his judgment. The whaleboat darted swiftly and buoyantly over the long swell, making good northing, and all hands were in cheerful spirits. Lobu, who seemed quiet enough again, was allowed to have his hands free; but one ankle was padlocked to a thwart, whilst all weapons were removed from within his reach. He sat silent and meditative in the bottom of the boat, gazing intently at his little black _tiki_ which Tari, with kindly forethought, had removed from the ill-fated _Ocmulgee_. Aft sat Jack, the steering-oar in his hand, a boat's compass between his feet, whilst Broncho and Jim reclined at their ease against the stroke thwart, and Tari slumbered peacefully at full length in the bows. Four days passed thus peacefully, and then the good south-west wind slackened, wavered, and finally died away, leaving the whaleboat floating motionless on the long, never-ceasing Pacific swell. The sun shone fiercely with an eye-wearying glare; a thickness of steamy mist gathered and obscured the horizon. The atmosphere was heavy and suffocating, with a moist heat; the sky was a pale sickly blue, and the deep stillness grew oppressive and aroused a feeling of depression and apprehension. The castaways lay silent. Not a breath stirred the air; everything seemed motionless with the exception of the long, stately swell of the restless ocean. Suddenly the universal quiet was broken. Over the water came the quaint wild cry of a Mother Carey's chicken, and two or three of these small flitters were perceived hovering around. "Mebbe there's some island hereabouts with them birds so handy," suggested Broncho, aroused out of his lethargy by the queer note. "I'm afraid not," replied Jack. "I don't like to hear a Mother Carey's chicken give tongue, though; it generally means a long spell of calm weather." "Why, oughtn't we to pick up the south-east trades directly?" inquired Jim. "Never can tell nowadays; we may have more than we want of the doldrums. The current seems to be setting us to the westward, also." "It certainly is some lackin' in wind," muttered Broncho sleepily, as he stretched himself in the shade of the sail for a snooze.