When the savory chowder was done, chocking the pot securely between two boxes on the cabin floor, so that it could not roll over, we helped ourselves and swapped yarns over it while the _Spray_ made her own way through the darkness on the river.

Howard told me stories about the Fuegian cannibals as she reeled along, and I told him about the pilot of the _Pinta_ steering my vessel through the storm off the coast of the Azores, and that I looked for him at the helm in a gale such as this.
I do not charge Howard with superstition,--we are none of us superstitious,--but when I spoke about his returning to Montevideo on the _Spray_ he shook his head and took a steam-packet instead.
I had not been in Buenos Aires for a number of years.

The place where I had once landed from packets, in a cart, was now built up with magnificent docks.

Vast fortunes had been spent in remodeling the harbor; London bankers could tell you that.

The port captain, after assigning the _Spray_ a safe berth, with his compliments, sent me word to call on him for anything I might want while in port, and I felt quite sure that his friendship was sincere.