He was young enough to long for an
opportunity to tell San Benavides that he was a puppy, a mongrel puppy.
Just then he would have given a gun-metal case, filled with cigars--the
only treasure he possessed--for a Portuguese dictionary.
After a really difficult and hazardous descent, they found the others
awaiting them in a rock-shrouded cove. The barest standing-room was
afforded by a patch of shingle and detritus. Alongside a flat stone
lay three broad planks tied together with cowhide. The center plank
was turned up at one end. This was the catamaran, which de Sylva had
dignified by the name of boat. The primitive craft rested in a black
pool in which the stars trembled, though they were hardly visible as
yet in the brighter sky. The water murmured in response to the
movement of the tide, but to the unaided eye there was no vestige of a
passage through the volcanic barrier that reared itself on every hand.
"Were 'ave you bin?" growled Coke. "We've lost a good ten minnits.
You ought to 'ave known, Hozier, that it's darkest just after sunset."
"We could not have started sooner, sir."
"W'y not? We were kep' waitin' up there, searchin' for you."
"That was our best slice of luck to-day. Had any of you appeared on
the ledge you would have been seen from the launch.
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