148 On the trail of vanishing birds 



McPhee with his wooly head against the soles of Herby's feet, 

 and Herby with his now decapped head against McPhee's feet. 

 They slept soundly like that for the next fifteen hours. 



The storm had overtaken us on Sunday, the thirteenth. It was 

 the following Thursday, May 17, when we finally reached Nassau. 

 After what we had been through, the trip back could only be 

 described as "an uneventful voyage." As soon as we were anchored 

 off the old sponge dock and our business concluded, Herby, his 

 yachting cap tipped over one ear, at its rakish best, mumbled his 

 good-bys and ambled off into the waterfront crowd. McPhee 

 looked after his long lean figure as one would at a child who has 

 passed beyond the age of parental restraint. "Rum," he said bit- 

 terly, "th' cheapes' an' th' mostes' he can drink." I shook hands 

 with McPhee and we didn't make anything of it, but he knew, 

 and I knew, that his skill had saved our lives. There was only one 

 thing I wanted just then, anyway. I followed Herby ashore, my 

 legs a little unsteady when they reached the paving. I thought that 

 I might have a small dram myself. 



That unusual May hurricane, of which we had entered the 

 distant southerly fringe, came roaring out of the Atlantic toward 

 Hatteras, veered almost due south and, completely unannounced, 

 swept on straight for Abaco, the Tongue of the Ocean, and Andros 

 Island just beyond. As reconstructed by a surprised weather 

 bureau, it swerved in a great westerly loop just before striking 

 Abaco, kept swinging all the way around until it was heading 

 east, and then went roaring off into the open Atlantic where it had 

 been spawned. The sudden and completely unaccountable swerve 

 to the west and the reversal of course that followed unquestion- 

 ably saved us from a cold, lonely, and very wet grave. As stout as 

 she was the Alert could never have survived the full blast of the 

 hurricane, not even with the imperturbable McPhee at the tiller. 



So far as the flamingos were concerned, our little expedition 

 had brought back only negative information, and although it is 

 against such a fabric that we see the true worth of more positive 

 data, empty results bring with them empty hearts and a sense of 

 disappointment. Nevertheless even with McPhee's skill we had 

 more than our share of luck on that voyage. 



