After we had rounded Nukuor we should, barring accident, reach Ponape in not more than sixty hours.
It was late afternoon, and on the demure little breeze that marched behind us came far-flung sighs of spice-trees and nutmeg flowers.

The slow prodigious swells of the Pacific lifted us in gentle, giant hands and sent us as gently down the long, blue wave slopes to the next broad, upward slope.

There was a spell of peace over the ocean, stilling even the Portuguese captain who stood dreamily at the wheel, slowly swaying to the rhythmic lift and fall of the sloop.
There came a whining hail from the Tonga boy lookout draped lazily over the bow.
"Sail he b'long port side!" Da Costa straightened and gazed while I raised my glass.

The vessel was a scant mile away, and must have been visible long before the sleepy watcher had seen her.

She was a sloop about the size of the Suwarna, without power.