He even avoided the subject, which I one day thought it my duty to press upon him.

One magnificent evening, the 30th July (that is to say, three weeks after our departure), the frigate was abreast of Cape Blanc, thirty miles to leeward of the coast of Patagonia.

We had crossed the tropic of Capricorn, and the Straits of Magellan opened less than seven hundred miles to the south.

Before eight days were over the Abraham Lincoln would be ploughing the waters of the Pacific.
Seated on the poop, Ned Land and I were chatting of one thing and another as we looked at this mysterious sea, whose great depths had up to this time been inaccessible to the eye of man.

I naturally led up the conversation to the giant unicorn, and examined the various chances of success or failure of the expedition.