“That’s all right,” said Holmes, taking up his glass again.  “So was I when I ordered you in irons, and in order that you may appreciate the full force of the joke I repeat it.  Bonaparte, do your duty.”

In an instant the order was obeyed, and the unhappy Judge shortly found himself manacled and alone in the forecastle.  Meanwhile Captain Cook, in response to the commander’s order, repaired to the deck and scanned the distant coast.

“I can’t place it,” he said.  “It can’t be Monte Cristo, can it?”

“No, it can’t,” said the Count, who stood hard by.  “My island was in the Mediterranean, and even if it dragged anchor it couldn’t have got out through the Strait of Gibraltar.”

“Perhaps it’s Robinson Crusoe’s island,” suggested Doctor Johnson.

“Not it,” observed De Foe.  “If it is, the rest of you will please keep off.  It’s mine, and I may want to use it again.  I’ve been having a number of interviews with Crusoe latterly, and he’s given me a lot of new points, which I intend incorporating in a sequel for the Cimmerian Magazine.”

“Well, in the name of Atlas, what island is it, then?” roared Holmes, angrily.  “What is the matter with all you learned lubbers that I have brought along on this trip?  Do you suppose I’ve brought you to whistle up favorable winds?  Not by the beard of the Prophet!  I brought you to give me information, and now when I ask for the name of a simple little island like that in plain sight there’s not one of you able so much as to guess at it reasonably.  The next man I ask for information goes into irons with Judge Blackstone if he doesn’t answer me instantly with the information I want.  Munchausen, what island is that?”

“Ahem! that?” replied Munchausen, trembling, as he reflected upon the Captain’s threat.  “What?  Nobody knows what island that is?  Why, you surprise me—­”

“See here, Baron,” retorted Holmes, menacingly, “I ask you a plain question, and I want a plain answer, with no evasions to gain time.  Now it’s irons or an answer.  What island is that?”

“It’s an island that doesn’t appear on any chart, Captain,” Munchausen responded instantly, pulling himself together for a mighty effort, “and it has never been given a name; but as you insist upon having one, we’ll call it Holmes Island, in your honor.  It is not stationary.  It is a floating island of lava formation, and is a menace to every craft that goes to sea.  I spent a year of my life upon it once, and it is more barren than the desert of Sahara, because you cannot raise even sand upon it, and it is devoid of water of any sort, salt or fresh.”

“What did you live on during that year?” asked Holmes, eying him narrowly.