On the third day after leaving the Pacific we were shrouded in fog, but with it we had a fine southerly breeze that carried us rapidly on our course.  The fog was so dense that we obtained no observation for four days, but so accurate was the sailing master’s computation that the difference between our observed and estimated positions was less than two miles.

When the fog rose we were fairly in Ghijiga Bay, a body of water shaped like a narrow V. Sharp eyes looking ahead discovered a vessel at anchor, and all hoped it was the Clara Bell.  As we approached she developed into a barque, and gave us comfort, till her flag completed our delight.  We threw the lead and began looking for anchorage.

Nine, eight, seven fathoms were successively reported, and for some minutes the depth remained at six and a half.  A mile from the Clara Bell we dropped anchor, the ship trembling from, stem to stern as the huge chain ran through the hawse-hole.  We were at the end of a nine days voyage.

CHAPTER VII.

We were fifteen miles from the mouth of Ghijiga river, the shoals forbidding nearer approach.  The tide rises twenty-two feet in Ghijiga Bay, and to reach the lighthouse and settlement near the river, even with small boats, it is necessary to go with the tide.  We learned that Major Abasa, of the Telegraph service, was at the light-house awaiting our arrival, and that we must start before midnight to reach the landing at the proper time.

Captain Lund ordered a huge box filled with provisions and other table ware, and threw in a few bottles of wine as ballast.  I was too old a traveler to neglect my blankets and rubber coat, and found that Anossoff was as cautious as myself.

We prolonged our tea-drinking to ten o’clock and then started.  Descending the ship’s side was no easy matter.  It was at least three feet from the bottom of the gang-way ladder to the water, and the boat was dancing on the chopping sea like a pea on a hot shovel.  Captain Lund descended first, followed by Anossoff.  Then I made my effort, and behind me was a grim Cossack.  Just as I reached the lowest step a wave swung the boat from the ship and left me hanging over the water.  The Cossack, unmindful of things below, was backing steadily toward my head.  I could not think of the Russian phrase for the occasion and was in some dilemma how to act.  I shouted ‘Look out’ with such emphasis that the man understood me and halted with his heavy boots about two inches above my face.  Clinging to the side ropes and watching my opportunity, I jumped at the right moment and happily hit the boat.  The Cossack jumped into the lap of a sailor and received a variety of epithets for his carelessness.  There are fourteen ways in the Russian language of calling a man a ——­ fool, and I think all of them were used.

[Illustration:  ASCENDING THE BAY.]