of the vessel. All around was a watery horizon, except in the one
place only, toward the south, where far in the distance the Peak of
Teneriffe rose into the air.

The profound calm, the warm atmosphere, the slow pitching of the
yacht, and the dull creaking of the spars all combined to lull into a
state of indolent repose the people on board. Forward were the crew;
some asleep, others smoking, others playing cards. At the stern were
Oxenden, the intimate friend of Featherstone, and Dr. Congreve, who
had come in the double capacity of friend and medical attendant.
These two, like the crew, were in a state of dull and languid
repose. Suspended between the two masts, in an Indian hammock, lay
Featherstone, with a cigar in his mouth and a novel in his hand, which
he was pretending to read. The fourth member of the party, Melick, was
seated near the mainmast, folding some papers in a peculiar way. His
occupation at length attracted the roving eyes of Featherstone, who
poked forth his head from his hammock, and said in a sleepy voice:

"I say, Melick, you're the most energetic fellah I ever saw. By Jove!
you're the only one aboard that's busy. What are you doing?"

"Paper boats," said Melick, in a business-like tone.

"Paper boats! By Jove!" said Featherstone. "What for?"

"I'm going to have a regatta," said Melick. "Anything to kill time,
you know."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Featherstone again, raising himself higher in his
hammock, "that's not a bad idea. A wegatta! By Jove! glowious!