He hardly dared to think what would become of the ship in case it should prove impossible to subdue the fire. She was a fine new vessel, having been built on the Clyde only two years before. Should a fair wind spring up and the fire continue to burn inwardly, there might be some hope of making Callao or Panama, and thus saving the ship; but here they were in a dead calm, at a place where a steady wind of any sort was practically out of the question. All the afternoon water was pumped into the hold, being led over the coal by means of the trenches, and when pumping ceased early in the evening it appeared to have done much good. The coal in the main hatch was cooled off, and the smoke had disappeared from the one next to it. But the morning would prove whether the fire was to be subdued or not, and the crew were ordered to bring up their mattresses and sleep on deck. Then all the hatches were tightly battened down in order to exclude air from the hold, and supper was served two hours later than usual. But no one in the cabin except Howard was able to do justice to the turtle-steak, the others hardly knowing what was before them. Anxiety and suspense destroy appetite, and not until morning arrived would it be known whether or not the fire had the ship at its mercy. If the coal was merely heated and not actually burning, the water pumped on it would probably suffice to avert combustion. The fact of the vapor having vanished was of little importance—the exterior of a volcano may be treacherously fair and peaceful at the very moment the interior is a mass of molten fire. Howard turned in at the usual time. He vaguely understood that something was wrong, and wondered why all were so grave. But the boy saw neither fire nor smoke, and his childish mind had not yet grasped the peril which threatened the ship. Clad in his white nightgown, he knelt at his mother’s knee; and, burying his face in her lap, said the evening prayer she had taught. He repeated the words more slowly than usual, and after reaching “Amen” continued earnestly, “God, don’t let us be burned up, and please let us catch another turtle to-morrow.” Then he ran into his little room next to that of his parents, and bounded into bed in a way that made the slats rattle. Ten minutes later, when Mrs. Stafford stole in on tip-toe, the child was sleeping peacefully; the bed-clothes were all kicked off, and the cherished figure of Lord Nelson—without which he never went to sleep—had just fallen from one little hand. There he lay in the sweet forgetfulness of childhood, while his mother stood beside him thinking of the many nights he had slept in that little bed; in storm and calm, in heat and cold, in the Atlantic, in the Pacific, in the Indian Ocean. How many more nights would he sleep there? She softly imprinted a kiss on the tanned forehead, and left the room with moist eyes. Ascending to the quarter-deck, she lay down in a hammock underneath the awning.