That which at the time was the most eloquent message from the sea came close to our door, cast up on the snowy-white coral drift of a little cove, where it immediately attracted notice.  Nothing but an untrimmed bamboo staff nearly 30 feet long, carrying an oblong strip of soiled white calico between two such strips of red turkey twill.  Tattered and frayed, the flags seemed to tell of the desperate appeal for help of some forlorn castaway; of a human being, marooned on a lonely sandbank on the Barrier, without shelter, food or water, but not altogether bereft of hope.  Beche-de-mer fishers have in times past been marooned on the Reef by mutinous blacks, and left to die by slow degrees, or to be drowned by the implacable yet merciful tide.  A makeshift rudder well worn bespoke strenuous efforts to steer a troubled boat to shelter, but this crude signal staff, deftly arranged, told of present agony and stress.  It might have been the emblem of a tragic event that the Beachcomber single-handed was not able to investigate.  As a matter of fact, it was only a temporary datum of one of His Majesty’s surveying ships engaged in attempting to set the bounds of the Barrier.

Rarely do we sail about without enjoying the zest of the chance of getting something for nothing.  Not yet has the seaman’s chest, brass-bound, with its secret compartments full of “fair rose-nobles and bright moidores,” been lighted upon; but who can say?  Perhaps it has come ashore but now, after leagues of aimless wanderings, and awaits in some cosy cove the next Beachcombing expedition.  That from the ill-fated Merchant came hither years before my time, and was, in any case, pathetically unromantic.

Peradventure there are many who deem this solitary existence dull?  Why, it is brimful of interest and sensation.  There are the tragedies of the bush to observe and elucidate; all cannot be foreseen and prevented, or even avenged.  A bold falcon the other day swooped down upon a wood-swallow that was imitating the falcon’s flight just above my head, and bore it bleeding to a tree-top, while I stood shocked at the audacity of the cannibal.  A bullet dropped the murderous bird with its dead victim fast in the talons.  There are comedies, too, and you have the wit to see them, and in these Beachcombing expeditions expectation, fairly effervesces.

One lucky individual—­a mere amateur—­casually picked up a black-lip mother-of-pearl shell on an island some little distance away.  It contained a blue pearl, the price of which gave him such a start in life, that he is now an owner of ships.  May not other tides cast up on other shores other oysters whose lives have been rendered miserable by the presence of pearls?