Among' the Islands 241 



Out came the fishing-tackle, and very soon the deck 

 was strewn with piles of cod, halibut, butterfly fish — 

 or Irish lords as the sailors comically called them — 

 enough to feed a ship's crew for a month. But 

 where we were now there was "no bottom," and we 

 could not anchor; I threw a line overboard to find 

 out which way we were drifting. I thought we 

 were going toward Montague Island. They said 

 we were drifting out to sea, but I was sure we were 

 not, and I spent the only uneasy night I had in 

 thirty-two days of sailing. The fog lasted sixteen 

 hours. They were trying to determine whether we 

 were near land by blowing the whistle. "No echo," 

 was the verdict. One gentleman said there was an 

 echo. A sea captain who was aboard said: "I 

 have sailed these waters for thirty years, and I say 

 there was no echo." "And I say there was," 

 retorted the landsman, "and you will hear rocks on 

 the keel in less than half an hour." The captain 

 took the benefit of the doubt and backed the ship a 

 little from the direction of the supposed echo. 

 Suddenly the fog lifted, and there we were, right 

 on top, so to speak, of the point of some cape. I 

 readily understood why the question of the echo 

 was disputed. The cliff was so close that the echo 

 blended with the sound of the whistle and could 

 not be distinguished from it. A rifle-shot would 

 have told the story quickly enough. 



