AUGUSTINE BAY. 



Not a story this time. Instead, a string of 

 stories. For things come about at sea, as upon 

 land, without much reference to literary values. 

 They simply occur. Sometimes they are dramatic ; 

 oftener not. Sometimes they steer towards a 

 climax; oftener they don't. 



So this is a plain account of what happened — 

 an account of what happened to me and my crew 

 and my ship when the lot of us called at Augus- 

 tine Bay. 



The Clara Bell had been leaking. It was a 

 trifle, said I at first ; but now it got worse. The 

 pumps were at it all the while, not working hard, 

 but working. Clearly, it was time to worry. 



Searching the damp, dark hold, we made out at 

 last the treacherous spot. There, against the 

 stern-post, about two feet below the water-line, we 

 found the sea-brine oozing in. 



I should have called it tough luck, this wretched 

 obstacle to our voyage, had we not been every 

 man Jack of us ready to welcome such inter- 

 ruption. For our cruise was up. Port was the 

 place for us, so we put away. 



Out of the sea rose the green, luxuriantly 

 wooded Madagascan coast, — within the coast a 



