retired for the night.




CHAPTER XIII.

CAPTAIN BOTTOM, THE WHALE-KILLER.


On the morning of the 24th of June, the good ship Pacific was sailing
gallantly down the coast of Brazil, all her canvass spread to a light
breeze, her port tacks aboard, and heading for Bahia.

The air was hot with the breath of tropic winds, and the horizon to the
west and south was festooned with fierce red clouds. The sun was just
setting, and spreading the broad ocean with a crimson light, giving a
weird and curious outline to every feature of the ship. There was
something grand, even enchanting and sublime, in the picture here spread
out, presenting as it did the highest example of God's goodness and
reality.

The scene changed suddenly, as the sun disappeared. The fierce, red
clouds melted into softness and tenderness. A pale, yellow light spread
along the heavens and over the sea; and the ship that a few minutes
before had looked like a white-winged phantom floating over a sea of
fire, now assumed the appearance of a maiden decked in her bridal robes.

A man of short, stout figure, a sort of compromise between an alderman
and a dwarf, with very short legs, a broad red face, wide mouth, crispy