CHAPTER IV.

IN THE FOG.


By noon of the following day the coast of the Peninsula of California
had been sighted to leeward. The lower temperature of the northwest
Trades had driven Mrs. Brimmer and Miss Chubb into their state-rooms to
consult their wardrobes in view of an impending change from the light
muslins and easy languid toilets of the Tropics. That momentous question
for the moment held all other topics in abeyance; and even Mrs. Markham
and Miss Keene, though they still kept the deck, in shawls and wraps,
sighed over this feminine evidence of the gentle passing of their
summer holiday. The gentlemen had already mounted their pea-jackets
and overcoats, with the single exception of Senor Perkins, who, in
chivalrous compliment to the elements, still bared his unfettered throat
and forehead to the breeze. The aspect of the coast, as seen from the
Excelsior's deck, seemed to bear out Mr. Banks' sweeping indictment of
the day before. A few low, dome-like hills, yellow and treeless as
sand dunes, scarcely raised themselves above the horizon. The air, too,
appeared to have taken upon itself a dry asperity; the sun shone with a
hard, practical brilliancy. Miss Keene raised her eyes to Senor Perkins
with a pretty impatience that she sometimes indulged in, as one of the
privileges of accepted beauty and petted youth.

"I don't think much of your peninsula," she said poutingly. "It looks