'It's as determinable as a rock, anyhow!' exclaimed Mr. Vanderholt. 'I want to be able to report a wonder when we return.' Here his Dutch countenance put on the air of good-humoured cunning with which he usually prefaced a joke. 'There is about a quarter of a mile of Equatorial water which possesses a remarkable property. Sink an object in it, and you draw it up gilt. If we strike this wonderful patch of sea, we will gild the _Mowbray_ from waterway to truck; boats, ground-tackle--everything--shall be resplendent, and we shall be the marvel of London as we sail up the Thames.' Miss Vanderholt watched Captain Glew, to see how he relished this sort of thing. The skipper exclaimed austerely: 'It's a tract of water written of in books for the marines. It's not to be found at sea, sir.' 'We must strike it, man, so that we may return covered with glory.' 'Patch got any colour, sir?' 'I believe it is a blood-red. A man I once sailed with claimed to have sighted it. He was in the foretop-mast crosstrees, and saw the patch off the bow, and hailed the deck, but he squinted damnably. You can't keep a true course for anything when you squint. The captain missed the patch. No other man saw it; and the sailor, who was a Dane, was, or is, the only man in the world who has ever seen that miraculous bit of Equatorial water.' He looked at his daughter, clearly enjoying his own imagination; and Captain Glew uttered a hollow laugh, and stood up. 'I will visit the vessel to-morrow, sir, and report. I will bring my papers along with me----' 'No need,' interrupted Mr. Vanderholt; 'Mr. Fairbanks' introduction is enough.' The man made a nautical bow to the father and daughter, and was going, when he suddenly stopped to say: 'Are you particular as to the nationalities of the men, sir?' 'English and Dutchmen, in such proportions as may please you,' said Mr. Vanderholt; 'but never a Dago, Captain Glew. I was once stabbed by a Dago.' 'And a Dago would have stabbed me if I hadn't killed him,' said the captain. 'We'll ship no Dagos, sir.' He made another nautical bow, and departed. 'I like him,' said Mr. Vanderholt, turning in his chair so as to resume his letter-writing; 'but I guess the crew will find him a taut hand.' 'What is a taut hand?' inquired his daughter. 'A man who breeds mutinies,' he answered. He looked thoughtful for a few moments, as though visited by some tragic memories; then, taking up his pen, he went on writing his letters. CHAPTER II. DOWN RIVER. On the morning of November 21, 1837, the schooner _Mowbray_ lay at anchor abreast of Greenwich. In the fresh westerly wind you found the sun-white sparkle of winter. Buildings, ships, wharves, the further bends of the Reach, stood out with the sharpness and delicacy of ivory work. The movements of the drapery of bunting, the swelling and breathing of passing canvas, were beautiful to see under the hard, blue sky, with its frost-work of gleaming cloud high over Plaistow Level.