breast and shoulders above the table, and entertained the wild idea
of asking him to evoke a blessing. To complete the confusion of
his appearance, he was called "Senor" Perkins, for no other reason,
apparently, than his occasional, but masterful, use of the Spanish
vernacular.

Steadying himself by one of the quarter stanchions, he waved his right
hand oratorically towards the sinking coast.

"Look at it, sir. One of the finest countries that ever came from the
hand of the Creator; a land overflowing with milk and honey; containing,
sir, in that one mountain range, the products of the three zones--and
yet the abode of the oppressed and down-trodden; the land of faction,
superstition, tyranny, and political revolution."

"That's all very well," said Banks irritably, "but Mazatlan is a
well-known commercial port, and has English and American correspondents.
There's a branch of that Boston firm--Potter, Potts & Potter--there. The
new line of steamers is going to stop there regularly."

Senor Perkins' soft black eyes fell for an instant, as if accidentally,
on the third mate, but the next moment he laughed, and, throwing back
his head, inhaled, with evident relish, a long breath of the sharp, salt
air.

"Ah!" he said enthusiastically, "THAT'S better than all the business you
can pick up along a malarious coast. Open your mouth and try to take in
the free breath of the glorious North Pacific. Ah! isn't it glorious?"

"Where's the captain?" said Banks, with despairing irritation. "I want