164 MYSTIC ISLES 



— World below the brine. 



Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves. 



Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seed. 



The thick tangle, . . . and pink turf. 



When I looked again at the reef I espied a small 

 boat, almost a speck outside the coral barrier. She vras 

 too small for an inter-island cutter, and smaller than 

 those do not venture beyond the reef. She was down- 

 ing her single sail, and the sun glinted on the wet can- 

 vas. I called to the guardian of the semaphore, and 

 when he pointed his telescope at the object, he shouted 

 out: 



''Mais, cest curieuocl Et ees a schmall vessel, a 

 sheep's boat!" 



I waited for no more, but with all sorts of conjectures 

 racing through my mind, I hurried down the hill. Un- 

 der the club balcony I called up to Captain Goeltz, who 

 already had his glass fixed. He answered: 



"She 's a ship's boat, with three men, a jury rig, and 

 barrels and boxes. She 's from a wreck, that 's sure." 



He came rolling down the narrow stairway, and to- 

 gether we stood at the quai du Commerce as the mysteri- 

 ous boat drew nearer. We saw that the oarsmen were 

 rowing fairly strongly against the slight breeze, and 

 our fears of the common concomitants of wrecks, — star- 

 vation and corpses — disappeared as we made out their 

 faces through the glasses. They stood out bronzed and 

 hearty. The boat came up along the embankment, one 

 of the three steering, with as matter of fact an air as if 

 they had returned from a trip within the lagoon. There 

 was a heap of things in the boat, the sail, a tank, a bar- 

 rel, cracker-boxes, blankets, and some clothing. 



