SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND EGGS 



on the open sea, heading for Capetown. Then he 

 collapsed, and I had to take the tiller, as the helmsman 

 was already knocked up. The skipper went below, while 

 the boys, who had sung at first, very quickly subsided 

 and lay huddled up around the mast. 



It was the trickiest voyage on which I have ever 

 been. Standing on the deck, I steered with a rope 

 fastened to the tiller and kept my balance by holding 

 on tight to it. Rushing alongside and keeping 

 me company for fifteen minutes at a time swam 

 porpoises, whose phosphorescent bodies made a weird 

 spectacle in the darkness. 



Suddenly I saw a white patch in front of me. It 

 was the reef of Robin Island. I turned away with all 

 speed, the old paraffin engine running untended 

 but as steadily as a rock. 



And so I got away from Penguin Island, which 

 I shall never see again. Nothing would induce me to 

 revisit the place, especially in stormy weather. The 

 Dutchman on the island told me that five million 

 penguins visited the island every year, and that our load 

 made up seventy-five thousand eggs taken off so far that 

 season. Whether either statement is correct I cannot 

 say ; neither can I vouch for the Dutchman's story 

 that at the annual migration of the penguins each 

 bird picks a pebble from the beach and swallows it 

 in order to provide ballast for the long journey he takes 

 to the Antarctic. He said he had seen them do it. 



247 



