MR. LONG had gone from their gaze completely, and could be seen no more. While trying to find him, the boys made conjectures as to where he might be. Giving up all idea of his being on the beach, they imagined him wending his solitary way far up the coast, or, perhaps, scaling the mighty cliff itself in some more accessible place. Gradually the vessel drifted farther and farther away, until at length it was far up in Minas Basin. “Well, boys,” said Bart, “this is getting to be monotonous. We’re like ferrymen, going forever between two points.” “Yes, or like the pendulum of a clock, vibrating always, backward and forward.” “One more night of drifting is before us.” “More meals of pork and molasses.” “Or burnt Indian paste.” “Or smoky molasses candy.” “The worst of it is, that we have nothing to amuse ourselves with.” “It’s a pity we couldn’t start some game.” “Bart, tell a story.” “A story?” said Bart. “Who could tell a story under such circumstances?” “I don’t believe,” said Bruce, “that a calm was ever known to last so long in the Basin of Minas. Was it, captain?” he added, appealing to Captain Corbet, who had just emerged from the cabin. “Wal,” replied Captain Corbet, “it’s not usual to have a calm in the month of May; still, we do-have ’em sometimes.” “I should rather think we had,” said Bart. “I’ve known ’em last a week,” said Captain Corbet, solemnly. “A week?” “Yes, a hull week; but that was in July. Still, there’s no knowin’. It may be in May this year.” “Then we’ll have to go ashore in the boat tomorrow. I will. I’ll mutiny, and start off.” So spoke Bart, and the rest all declared that they would do the same. “O, we’ll have wind to-night,” said Captain Corbet, in a tone of vague encouragement. “Yes, yes, we must have wind to-night, or before morn-in’. We’ve had about calm enough. You feel anxious, no deoubt, all on ye,” he continued, with a superior smile; “but if you feel so, jedge what I must feel--me, with, my babby. Why, every minute,--yes, every mortial minute,--the voice of that there smilin’ babe is a-soundin’ in my ears. Sometimes he says, ‘GGa-ga-ga,’ and sometimes ‘Da-da-da;’ and sometimes the cunnin’ leetil human creetur emits a cry,--a favorite one of his’n,--that sounds jest like ‘Bo-rax! Bo-rax! Bo-rax!’ Isn’t it odd?” And he looked at the boys with that mild face of his, whereon was intermingled an expression partly made up of a father’s affection, and partly of tender enjoyment of his little cherub’s innocent ways. “And what does he mean by Borax?” asked Bruce. “What does he mean? Why, a’most everything. It’s a pet name he gives to me, you know. That and ‘Ga-ga’--” “I suppose he doesn’t know the English language yet.” “No, he hain’t larned it yet; but he’s a-gettin’ on. Why, I could stand here for hours and tell you words of his’n. He’s uncommon spry, too. He--” “Bart,” cried Bruce, suddenly, “start up a song. Sing ‘Uncle Ned.’”