“You say there’s a harbour?” inquired Captain Selover.

“It should be on the west end,” said Dr. Schermerhorn.

Captain Selover drew me one side.  He, too was a little aroused.

“Now wouldn’t that get you?” he squeaked.  “Doctor runs up against a Norwegian bum who tells him about a volcanic island, and gives its bearings.  The island ain’t on the map at all.  Doctor believes it, and makes me lay my course for those bearings. And here’s the island!  So the bum’s story was true!  I’d like to know what the rest of it was!” His eyes were shining.

“Do we anchor or stand off and on?” I asked.

Captain Selover turned to grip me by the shoulder.

“I have orders from Darrow to get to a good berth, to land, to build shore quarters, and to snug down for a stay of a year at least!”

We stared at each other.

“Joyous prospect,” I muttered.  “Hope there’s something to do there.”

The morning wore, and we rapidly approached the island.  It proved to be utterly precipitous.  The high rounded hills sloped easily to within a hundred feet or so of the water and then fell away abruptly.  Where the earth ended was a fantastic filigree border, like the fancy paper with which our mothers used to line the pantry shelves.  Below, the white surges flung themselves against the cliffs with a wild abandon.  Thousands of sea birds wheeled in the eddies of the wind, thousands of ravens perched on the slopes.  With our glasses we could make out the heads of seals fishing outside the surf, and a ragged belt of kelp.

When within a mile we put the helm up, and ran for the west end.  A bold point we avoided far out, lest there should be outlying ledges.  Then we came in sight of a broad beach and pounding surf.

I was ordered to take a surf boat and investigate for a landing and an anchorage.  The swell was running high.  We rowed back and forth, puzzled as to how to get ashore with all the freight it would be necessary to land.  The ship would lie well enough, for the only open exposure was broken by a long reef over which we could make out the seas tumbling.  But inshore the great waves rolled smoothly, swiftly—­ then suddenly fell forward as over a ledge, and spread with a roar across the yellow sands.  The fresh winds blew the spume back to us.  We conversed in shouts.

“We can surf the boat,” yelled Thrackles, “but we can’t land a load.”

That was my opinion.  We rowed slowly along, parallel to the shore, and just outside the line of breakers.  I don’t know exactly how to tell you the manner in which we became aware of the cove.  It was as nearly the instantaneous as can be imagined.  One minute I looked ahead on a cliff as unbroken as the side of a cabin; the very next I peered down the length of a cove fifty fathoms long by about ten wide, at the end of which was a gravel beach.  I cried out sharply to the men.  They were quite as much astonished as I. We backed water, watching closely.  At a given point the cove and all trace of its entrance disappeared.  We could only just make out the line where the headlands dissolved into the background of the cliffs, and that merely because we knew of its existence.  The blending was perfect.