“Look here—­you; I say!  What have we turned round for?  We’re going away from the land!  Ain’t we going on to Mazatlan?”

The two men at the wheel looked silently forward, with that exasperating unconcern of any landsman’s interest peculiar to marine officials.  The passenger turned impatiently to the third mate.

“But this ain’t right, you know.  It was understood that we were going into Mazatlan.  I’ve got business there.”

“My orders, sir,” said the mate curtly, turning away.

The practical passenger had been observant enough of sea-going rules to recognize that this reason was final, and that it was equally futile to demand an interview with the captain when that gentleman was not visibly on duty.  He turned angrily to the cabin again.

“You look disturbed, my dear Banks.  I trust you haven’t slept badly,” said a very gentle voice from the quarter-rail near him; “or, perhaps, the ship’s going about has upset you.  It’s a little rougher on this tack.”

“That’s just it,” returned Banks sharply.  “We have gone about, and we’re not going into Mazatlan at all.  It’s scandalous!  I’ll speak to the captain—­I’ll complain to the consignees—­I’ve got business at Mazatlan—­I expect letters—­I”—­

“Business, my dear fellow?” continued the voice, in gentle protest.  “You’ll have time for business when you get to San Francisco.  And as for letters—­they’ll follow you there soon enough.  Come over here, my boy, and say hail and farewell to the Mexican coast—­to the land of Montezuma and Pizarro.  Come here and see the mountain range from which Balboa feasted his eyes on the broad Pacific.  Come!”

The speaker, though apparently more at his ease at sea, was in dress and appearance fully as unnautical as Banks.  As he leaned over the railing, his white, close-fitting trousers and small patent-leather boots gave him a jaunty, half-military air, which continued up to the second button of his black frock-coat, and then so utterly changed its character that it was doubtful if a greater contrast could be conceived than that offered by the widely spread lapels of his coat, his low turned-down collar, loosely knotted silk handkerchief, and the round, smooth-shaven, gentle, pacific face above them.  His straight long black hair, shining as if from recent immersion, was tucked carefully behind his ears, and hung in a heavy, even, semicircular fringe around the back of his neck where his tall hat usually rested, as if to leave his forehead meekly exposed to celestial criticism.  When he had joined the ship at Callao, his fellow-passengers, rashly trusting to the momentary suggestion of his legs on the gang-plank, had pronounced him military; meeting him later at dinner, they had regarded the mild Methodistic contour of his 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.