fish, that one might easily imagine it only the image of a dolphin reflected in a vast mirror. Several hundred miles to the eastward of where the _Lochleven_ lay becalmed were the Galapagos Islands, where thousands of turtles assemble, lay their eggs in the sand, and then float away with the current; sleeping on the water most of the time. A dozen were now in view at various distances from the ship, besides a big one that had just been captured, and was crawling awkwardly about the deck. Its great discolored shell, dead-looking eyes, and beak massive enough to sever a man’s wrist, gave little indication of the rich steaks and agreeable soup into which the cook promised to convert it on the morrow. Howard, the captain’s seven year old son, considered the turtle a new kind of steed, and bestrode its broad back in great glee. The bare-footed youngster was brown as a berry, and carried a toy sailor which had been christened Lord Nelson. The fact that his lordship was minus an arm only increased the affection with which he had been regarded for two years past, when he supplanted a golden haired doll, which Howard soon after consigned to a watery grave. Captain Stafford had been standing by the main hatch, watching the turtle, and seeing to it that his reckless son did not get a finger bitten off, when he became sensible of a faint, almost imperceptible odor. It was so vague as to be almost intangible—probably not half a dozen on board would have noticed it even had they stood where the captain did then. At first he tried to think it might be only imagination, and this view of the matter was strengthened when he walked to another part of the deck not far off and detected no odor whatever. He returned to his former position and sniffed the air as a hound does when scenting danger. Again that slight smell of gas. Captain Stafford knew what sort of a cargo was stowed under his feet, and from that moment he thought no more of the turtle. Walking to the carpenter-shop, he beckoned to its occupant. “Carpenter, get the main hatch off at once.” Cardiff coal is extraordinarily liable to spontaneous combustion, and not a few of the many ships that carry it from Cardiff and Swansea all over the world catch fire. Often the danger is discovered in time to be checked, but one of the peculiarities of this cargo is, that it may burn for days and even weeks in the center of the mass without giving the least sign, only to break forth at last in uncontrollable fury. The _Lochleven_ carried 4,000 tons of this commodity, consigned to San Francisco.