THE PEARLS OF THE ISLANDS 357 



glers. I laughed, and that raised their spirits; they 

 had taken me for a revenue officer. 



The abalone shells were shipped to Germany, the 

 meat went to China. Every week, I fancy, a few China- 

 men were sent over to the mainland in an old junk that 

 was always drifting up and down the channel. At 

 night she would drift inshore; a boat would be sent 

 into some convenient spot, the Chinese would land, 

 and by the next day they would have walked the 

 twenty miles to Los Angeles and were lost in the local 

 Chinatown. The old junk would run into San Pedro 

 in the morning, and her Chinese crew, with certificates, 

 would land the crop of abalones, after which they 

 would set sail again for San Clemente. 



The old man on the beach buys abalones from the 

 Japanese. He has an extraordinary machine or instru- 

 ment for polishing the shells. He sits near the grind- 

 stone, at the other end of which is a windmill wheel. 

 The wind turns the wheel and polishes his abalone 

 with little discomfort to him — no leg work at least. 

 When he picks up a shell as large as one's hand, or 

 larger (it may be a black, red, pink, or yellow abalone; 

 there are several kinds), you see that the inside is 

 beautiful; but the outside is ugly, with shells, seaweed, 

 boring-worms, serpulae, and other sea animals which 

 make their home on rocks and shells. This he presses 

 against the wheel, and presto! the dirt is ground off 

 and the surface becomes the same rich mother-of-pearl 

 found in the interior of the shell; but it is only when 

 the final polishing is given it that the beauty of the 

 abalone is seen, — there is really nothing more gorgeous 

 and beautiful than this shell. 



Many shells are polished in Los Angeles and at Ava- 



