SLUMBERERS OF THE SURGE 299 



my subjects, I must abide in a glass house, and 

 like a humble water beetle enclose within it a bub- 

 ble of air. My impatience never relaxed the de- 

 sire to fling the glass windows wide open, and smell 

 and taste and hear this new world — to hear, for 

 there must be some rippling vibration of sound or 

 other waves from so many thousands who forever 

 mumble at one another with their lips. 



One of my favorite neighborhoods of observa- 

 tion was a marvellous shire on the bottom of the 

 east side of Chatham Bay, Cocos. Just as Cocos 

 itself at this season was more often than not com- 

 pletely cloaked in a solid rain cloud, so my capitol 

 was forever hidden from prying eyes by a liquid 

 sheet of emerald green. 



Before describing an earthly city, we always 

 speak of its environment and background. What 

 I saw as I looked around above water just before 

 I dived was a sort of upground, I know of no other 

 word — the beautiful, great bay with the Arctwrus 

 riding at anchor, while high overhead rose the 

 steep mountain slopes of Cocos, covered with 

 dense, green jungles — tall palms and graceful, 

 lace-like tree-ferns standing out above all the rest, 

 while fig trees clung to the steepest slopes, drop- 

 ping down perfect portieres of dangling rootlets. 

 In and out, like a warp of silver threads among 

 the green foliage, shone the waterfalls — the glory 

 of all this island loveliness, dozens of them, slip- 

 ping down from rock to rock, or sliding gently 

 over hundred-foot stretches of emerald moss. 



But now the helmet is poised on high, dropped 



