By this, the Fuegians have approached near enough for hailing, which, however, they have been doing all along, shouting in high-pitched voices, and frantically gesticulating.

They cry, "Ho-say! ho-say!" in quick repetition, two of them standing up and waving skins of some sort above their heads.

"Thet means to hold palaver, an' hev a dicker wi' 'em," says Seagriff. "They want to trade off thar pelts an' sech-like for what we can give them in exchange."

"All right," assents the Captain. "Be it so; and we may as well douse the sail and heave to—we're making no way, any how." At this the sail is lowered, and the boat lies motionless on the water, awaiting the approach of the canoe.

In a few seconds the native craft comes paddling up, but for a time keeps beyond grappling distance—a superfluous precaution on the part of the Fuegians, but very agreeable to those in the gig. Especially so now that they have a nearer view of the occupants of the native craft. There are, in all, thirteen of them; three men, four women, and the rest girls and boys of different ages, one of the women having an infant tied to her by a scarf fastened over one of her shoulders. Nearly a dozen dogs are in the canoe also—diminutive, fox-like animals with short ears, resembling the Esquimaux breed, but smaller. Of the human element—if human it can be called—all are savages of the lowest type and wildest aspect, their coarse shaggy hair hanging like loose thatch over low foreheads, and partially shading their little, bleary red eyes. Hideous are they to very deformity. Nor is their ugliness diminished, but rather heightened, by a variety of pigments—ochre, charcoal, and chalk—laid thick upon their faces and bodies with an admixture of seal-oil or blubber. The men are scantily clothed, with only one kind of garment, a piece of skin hung over their shoulders and lashed across the chest, and all the women wearing a sort of apron skirt of penguin-skins.

The canoe is a rough, primitive structure: several breadths of bark stitched together with sinews of the seal, and gathered up at the ends. Along each side a pole is lashed joining the gunwale-rail, while several stout pieces laid crosswise serve as beam timbers. In the bottom, amidships, is a mud hearth on which burns a fire, with sticks set up around it to dry. There are three compartments in the craft, separated from one another by the cross-pieces: in the forward one are various weapons—spears, clubs, and sling-stones—and fishing implements. The amidships section holds the fire-hearth, the men having place on the forward side of it; the women, who do the paddling, are seated farther aft; while in the stern division are stowed the boys, girls, and dogs.

Such is the picture taken in by the gig's people at a glance, for they have neither time nor opportunity to examine it minutely, as the Fuegians keep up a continual shouting and gesticulating, their hoarse guttural voices mingled with the barking of the dogs making a very pandemonium of noise.

A sign from Seagriff, however, and a word or two spoken in their own tongue, brings about a lull and an understanding, and the traffic commences. Sea-otter and fox-skins are exchanged for such useless trifles as chance to be in the gig's lockers, the savage hucksters not proving exorbitant in their demands. Two or three broken bottles, a couple of empty sardine-boxes, with some buttons and scraps of coloured cloth, buy up almost all their stock-in-trade, leaving them not only satisfied, but under the belief that they have outwitted the akifka-akinish (white men).

Still, they continue to solicit further traffic, offering not only their implements of the chase and fishing, but their weapons of war! The spears and slings Seagriff eagerly purchases, giving in exchange several effects of more value than any yet parted with, somewhat to the surprise of Captain Gancy. But, confident that the old sealer has a good and sufficient reason, the Captain says nothing, and lets him have his way.

The Fuegian women are no less solicitous than the men about the barter, and eagerly take a hand in it. Unlike their sisters of civilisation, they are willing to part with articles of personal adornment, even that most prized by them, the shell necklace. [Note 2.] Ay, more, what may seem incredible, she with the child—her own baby—has taken a fancy to a red scarf of China crape worn by Leoline, and pointing first to it and then to the babe on her shoulder, she plucks the little one from its lashings and holds it up with a coaxing expression on her countenance, like a cheap-jack tempting a simpleton at a fair to purchase a pinchbeck watch.

"What does the woman want?" asks Mrs Gancy, greatly puzzled; all the rest sharing her wonder, save Seagriff, who answers, with a touch of anxiety in his voice, "She wants to barter off her babby, ma'am, for that 'ere scarf."

"Oh!" exclaims Leoline, shocked, "surely you don't mean that, Mr Chips."

"Sure I do, Miss; neyther more nor less. Thet's jest what the unnateral woman air up to. An' she wouldn't be the first as hez done the same. I've heerd afore uv a Feweegin woman bein' willin' to sell her chile for a purty piece o' cloth."

The shocking incident brings the bargaining to an end. Situated as they are, the gig's people have no desire to burden themselves with Fuegian bric-a-brac, and have consented to the traffic only for the sake of keeping on good terms with the traffickers. But it has become tiresome, and Captain Gancy, eager to be off, orders oars out, the wind having quite died away.

Out go the oars, and the boat is about moving off, when the inhuman mother tosses her pickaninny into the bottom of the canoe, and, reaching her long skinny arm over the gig's stern-sheets, makes a snatch at the coveted scarf! She would have clutched it, had not her hand been struck down on the instant by the blade of an oar wielded by Henry Chester.

The hag, foiled in her attempt, sets up a howl of angry disappointment, her companions joining in the chorus and sawing the air with threatening arms. Impotent is their rage, however, for the crafty Seagriff has secured all their missile weapons, and under the impulse of four strong rowers, the gig goes dancing on, soon leaving the clumsy Fuegian craft far in its wake, with the savages shouting and threatening vengeance.

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Note 1. The height of Sarmiento, according to Captain King, is 6,800 feet, though others make it out higher, one estimate giving it 6,967. It is the most conspicuous as well as the highest of Fuegian mountains,—a grand cone, always snow-covered for thousands of feet below the summit, and sometimes to its base.

Note 2. The shell most in vogue among Fuegian belles for neck adornment is a pearl oyster (Margarita violacea) of an iridescent purplish colour, and about half an inch in diameter. It is found adhering to the kelp, and forms the chief food of several kinds of seabirds, among others the "steamer-duck." Shells and shell-fish play a large part in Fuegian domestic (!) economy. A large kind of barnacle (Concholepas Peruviana) furnishes their drinking-cups, while an edible mollusc (Mactra edulis) and several species of limpet (Patellae) help out their often scanty larder.



CHAPTER TEN.

SAVED BY A WILLIWAW.

"Wal!" says the old sealer, with an air of relief, when he sees that danger past, "I guess we've gi'n 'em the slip. But what a close shave! Ef I hedn't contrived to dicker 'em out o' the sling fixin's, they mout 'a' broke some o' our skulls."

"Ah! that's why you bought them," rejoins the skipper; he, as all the others, had hitherto been wondering at the acquisition of such worthless things, with more than their value given for them; for the spears were but tough poles pointed with flint or bone, and the slings a bit of seal-skin. "I perceive now what you were up to," he adds, "and a good bargain you made of it, Chips."

"But why should we have cared?" asked Henry Chester, his English blood roused, and his temper ruffled by the fright given Leoline. "What had we to fear from such miserable wretches? Only three men of them, and five of us!"

"Ay, Mister Henry, that's all true as to the numbers. But ef they war only one to our five, he wouldn't regard the odds a bit. They're like wild animals, an' fight jest the same. I've seed a Feweegin, only a little mite uv a critter, make attack on a whale-boat's crew o' sealers, an' gi'e sev'ral uv 'em ugly wounds. They don't know sech a thing as fear, no more'n a trapped badger. Neyther do thar weemen, who fight jest the same's the men. Thar ain't a squaw in that canoe as cudn't stan' a tussle wi' the best o' us. 'Sides, ye forgit thet we haven't any weepens to fight 'em with 'ceptin' our knives." This was true; neither gun, pistol, nor other offensive arm having been saved from the sinking Calypso. "An' our knives," he continues, "they'd 'a' been o' but little use against their slings, wi' the which they kin send a stone a good hundred yards. [Note 1.] Ay, Mister Henry, an' the spears too. Ef we hedn't got holt o' them, some uv 'em mout be stickin' in us now. Ez ye may see, they're the sort for dartin'."

The English youth, exulting in the strength and vigour of growing manhood, is loth to believe all this. He makes no response, however, having eased his feelings, and being satisfied with the display he has made of his gallantry by that well-timed blow with the oar.

"In any case," calmly interposes the skipper, "we may be thankful for getting away from them."

"Yis, Capting," says Seagriff, his face still wearing an anxious expression, "ef we hev got away from 'em, the which ain't sartin yit. I've my fears we haven't seen the last o' that ugly lot."

While speaking, his eyes are fixed on the canoe in an earnest, interrogating gaze, as though he sees something to make him uneasy. Such a thing he does see, and the next instant he declares, in excited tones, "No! Look at what they're doin'!"

"What?" asks the Captain.

"Sendin' up a signal smoke. Thet's thar trick, an' ne'er another."

Sure enough, a smoke is seen rising over the canoe, quite different from that previously observed—a white, curling cloud more like steam or what might proceed from straw set on fire. But they are not left long conjecturing about it, ere their attention is called to another and similar smoke on the land.

"Yonder!" exclaims Seagriff. "Thar's the answer. An' yonder an' yonder!" he adds, pointing to other white puffs that shoot up along the shore like the telegraphy of a chain of semaphores. [Note 2.]

"'Tair lookin' bad for us now," he says in undertone to the Captain, and still gazing anxiously toward the shores. "Thar's Feweegins ahead on both sides, and they're sure to put out fur us. Thet's Burnt Island on the port bow, and Cath'rine to starboard, both 'habited by Ailikoleeps. The open water beyant is Whale-boat Soun'; an' ef we kin git through the narrer atween, we may still hev a chance to show 'em our starn. Thar's a sough in the soun', that tells o' wind thar, an' oncet in it we'll get the help o' the sail."

"They're putting out now," is the Captain's rejoinder, as through his glass he sees canoe after canoe part from the shore, one shooting out at every point where there is a smoke.

When clear of the fringe of overhanging trees, the canoes are visible to the others; fifteen or twenty of them leaving the land on both sides, and all making toward the middle of the strait, where it is narrowest, evidently with the design of heading off the boat.

"Keep her well to starboard, Capting!" sings out the old sealer, "near as may be to the p'int o' Cath'rine Island. Ef we kin git past thet 'fore they close on us, we'll be safe."

"But hadn't we better put about and put back? We can run clear of them that way."

"Cl'ar o' the canoes ahead, yis! But not o' the others astarn. Look yonder! Thar's more o' 'em puttin' out ahint—the things air everywhar!"

"'Twill be safer to run on, then, you think?"

"I do, sir. B'sides, thar's no help for 't now. It's our only chance, an' it ain't sech a bad un, eyther. I guess we kin do it yit."

"Lay out to your oars, then, my lads," cries the skipper, steering as he has been advised. "Pull your best, all!"

A superfluous command that, for already they are straining every nerve, all awake to the danger drawing nigh. Never in their lives were they in greater peril, never threatened by a fate more fearful than that impending now. For, as the canoes come nearer, it can be seen that there are only men in them; men of fierce aspect, every one of them armed.

"Nary woman nor chile!" mutters Seagriff, as though talking to himself. "Thet means war, an' the white feathers stickin' up out o' thar skulls, wi' thar faces chalked like circus clowns! War to the knife, for sartin!"

Still other, if not surer, evidences of hostility are the spears bristling above their heads, and the slings in their hands, into which they are seen slipping stones to be ready for casting. Their cries, too, shrilling over the water, are like the screams of rapacious birds about to pounce on prey which they know cannot escape them.

And now the canoes are approaching mid-channel, closing in from either side en echelon, and the boat must pass between them. Soon she has some of them abeam, with others on the bows. It is running the gauntlet, with apparently a very poor chance of running it safely. The failure of an oar-stroke, a retarding whiff of wind, may bring death to those in the gig, or capture, which is the same. Yet they see life beyond, if they can but reach it,—life in a breeze, the "sough" on the water, of which Seagriff spoke. It is scarcely two cables' length ahead. Oh, that it were but one! Still they have hope, as the old sealer shouts encouragingly, "We may git into it yet. Pull, boys; pull wi' might an' main!"

His words spur them to a fresh effort, and the boat bounds on, the oars almost lifting her out of the water. The canoes abeam begin to fall astern, but those on the bows are forging dangerously near, while the savages in them, now on their feet, brandish spears and wind their slings above their heads. Their fiendish cries and furious gestures, with their ghastly chalked faces, give them an appearance more demoniac than human.

A stone is slung and a javelin cast, though both fall short. But will the next? They will soon be at nearer range, and the gig's people, absolutely without means of protection, sit in fear and trembling. Still the rowers, bracing hearts and arms, pull manfully on. But Captain Gancy is appalled as another stone plashes in the water close to the boat's side, while a third, striking the mast, drops down among them.

"Merciful Heaven!" he exclaims, despondingly, as he extends a sheltering arm over the heads of his dear ones. "Is it thus to end? Are we to be stoned to death?"

"Yonder's a Heaven's marcy, I do believe!" says Seagriff on the instant, "comin' to our help 'roun' Burnt Island. Thet'll bring a change, sure!"

All turn their eyes in the direction indicated, wondering what he means, and they see the water, lately calm, surging and whirling in violent agitation, with showers of spray dashing up to the height of a ship's mast.

"It's a williwaw!" adds the old sealer, in joyous tone, though at any other time, in open boat, or even decked ship, it would have sent a thrill of fear through his heart. Now he hails it with hope, for he knows that the williwaw [Note 3] causes a Fuegian the most intense fear, and oft engulfs his crazy craft, with himself and all his belongings. And at sight of the one now sweeping toward them the savages instantly drop sling and spear, cease shouting, and cower down in their canoes in dread silence.

"Now's our chance, boys!" sings out Seagriff. "Wi' a dozen more strokes we'll be cl'ar o' them—out o' the track o' the williwaw, too."

The dozen strokes are given with a will. Two dozen ere the squall reaches them, and when it comes up, it has spent most of its strength, passing alike harmlessly over boat and canoes. But again the other danger threatens. The Fuegians are once more upon their feet, shaking their spears and yelling more furiously than ever; anger now added to their hostility. Yet louder and more vengefully they shout at finding pursuit is vain, as they soon do, for the diversion caused by the williwaw has given the gig an advantage, throwing all the canoes so far astern that there is no likelihood of its being caught. Even with the oars alone the gig could easily keep the distance gained on the slowly-paddled craft. It does better, however, having caught the breeze, and, with a swollen sail it glides on down Whale-boat Sound, rapidly increasing its advantage. On, still on, till under the gathering shadows of night the flotilla of canoes appears like tiny specks—like a flock of foul birds at rest on the distant water.

"Thar's no fear o' them comin' arter us any furrer, I reck'n," says the old sealer, in a glad voice. "'Tain't likely that their country runs far in this direction."

"And we may thank the Almighty for it," is Captain Gancy's grateful rejoinder. "Surely never was His hand more visibly extended for the protection of poor mortals! Let us thank Him, all!"

And the devout skipper uplifts his hands in prayer, the rest reverently listening. After the simple thanksgiving, he fervently kisses, first his wife, then Leoline. Kisses of mutual congratulation, and who can wonder at their being fervent? For they all have been very near to their last embrace on earth!

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Note 1. Seagriff does not exaggerate. Their skill with this weapon is something remarkable. Captain King thus speaks of it: "I have seen them strike a cap, placed upon the stump of a tree fifty or sixty yards off, with a stone from a sling." And again, speaking of an encounter he had with Fuegians, "It is astonishing how very correctly they throw them, and to what a distance. When the first stone fell close to us, we all thought ourselves out of musket-shot!"

Note 2. A kind of telegraph or apparatus for conveying information by means of signals visible at a distance, and as oscillating arms or flags by daylight and lanterns at night. A simple form is still employed.

Note 3. The "williwaw," sometimes called the "wooley," is one of the great terrors of Fuegian inland waters. It is a sort of squall with a downward direction, probably caused by the warmer air of the outside ocean, as it passes over the snowy mountains, becoming suddenly cooled, and so dropping with a violent rush upon the surface of the water, which surges under it as if struck by cannon shot.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WHY "LAND OF FIRE."

The night is down; but, although it is very dark, the boat-voyagers do not bring in to land. They are still far from confident that the pursuit has been relinquished; and, until it is abandoned, they are still in danger.

Ere long, they have sure evidence that it is not. Along the shores of the sound flash up fires, which, like the smoke seen in the daylight, are surely signals. Some are down upon the beaches, others high up against the hill-sides—just such lights as Magalhaens beheld three and a half centuries before, while passing through the strait which now bears his name. [Note 1.] Hence, too, the name he bestowed on the unknown country lying south of them, "Tierra del Fuego"—"Land of Fire."

The fugitives in the gig see fires on both shores—fifty or more—the lurid flames symbolising the fierce implacable hostility of the savages who have set them alight.

"We're boun' to keep on till we've got 'em all astarn," says Seagriff. "So long's thar's a spark ahead, it'll be dangersome to put in. They'd be for headin' us off jest the same to-morrer, ez thar's another long narrer to pass atween this an' Darwin Soun'. 'Tair a bit lucky the night bein' so dark that they can't sight us from the shore. If they could, we'd 'a' had 'em out arter us now."

Under ordinary circumstances, the darkness would have made it difficult for them to proceed. But, oddly enough, the very thing which forces them to continue their retreat assists them in making it good, the fires on either side being like so many beacon-lights, enabling them to hold a course in mid-water. Thus guided, they run on as between two rows of street lamps, fortunately so far from either that the spread sail escapes being illumined by them. Fortunately, also, on reaching the next narrow, where it would be otherwise seen, there is a mist over the water. Screened by this, they succeed in passing through it unperceived, and enter Darwin Sound just as day is breaking. Here neither fires nor smokes are observed, a proof that they have passed out of the territory of the tribe which had attacked them.

Still, they do not yet seek the shore; the wind is too temptingly in their favour, and with sail up all day they run on into the north-west arm of the Beagle Channel, at length bringing to in a small cove on its southern side.

It is late afternoon when they make a landing; yet they have time to choose a camping-place ere darkness comes on. Not much choice is there, the only available spot being at the inner end of the cove. There a niche in the rocky beach forms a sort of natural boat-dock, large enough to admit the gig to moorings. And on the shore adjacent is the only patch of bare ground visible; at all other points the trees grow to the water's edge, with overhanging branches.

Confident now that their late pursuers have been shaken off, they determine on making a stay here of at least a day or two. After this long spell of laborious work, with the excitement which accompanied it, they greatly need rest. Besides, all are now very hungry, having had no opportunity of cooking aught since they left the landing-place on the isle.

Where they are now there is no difficulty about fire, fuel being plentiful all about. And while Caesar is preparing the repast, the others transform the boat-sail into a tent, by setting up the oars, trestle-fashion, and resting the mast on them as a ridge-pole.

Having satisfied the cravings of appetite, and completed their arrangements for passing the night, it still lacks an hour of sunset, and with nothing better to be done, they sit by the fire and contemplate the landscape, at which hitherto they have but glanced. A remarkable landscape it is—picturesque beyond description, and altogether unlike the idea generally entertained of Fuegian scenery. That portion of it which an artist would term the "foreground" is the cove itself, which is somewhat like the shoe of a mule—running about a hundred yards into the land, while less than fifty feet across the mouth. Its shores, rising abruptly from the beach, are wooded with a thick forest, which covers the steep sides of the encircling hills as far as can be seen, and to the water's edge. The trees, tall and grand, are of three kinds, almost peculiar to Tierra del Fuego. One is a true beech; another, as much birch as beech; the third, an aromatic evergreen of world-wide celebrity—the "Winter's-bark." [Note 2.] But there is also a growth of buried underwood, consisting of arbutus, barberry, fuchsias, flowering currants, and a singular fern, also occurring in the island of Juan Fernandez, and resembling the zamia of Australia.

The sea-arm on which the cove opens is but little over a mile in width, the shore on its farther side being a sheer cliff, rising hundreds of feet above the water, and indented here and there by deep gorges with thickly-wooded sides. Above the cliff's crest the slope continues on upward to a mountain ridge of many peaks, one of them a grand cone towering thousands of feet above all the others. That is Mount Darwin, wrapped in a mantle of never-melting snow. Along the intermediate space between the cliff's crest and the snow-line is a belt of woodland, intersected by what might be taken for streams of water, were it not for their colour. But they are too blue, too noiseless, to be water. Yet, in a way, they are water, for they are glaciers, some of them abutting upon the sea-arm, and filling up the gorges that open upon it with facades as precipitous as that of the cliff itself. There are streams of water also which proceed from the melting of the snow above; cataracts that spout out from the wooded sides of the ravines, their glistening sheen vividly conspicuous amid the greenery of the trees. Two of these curving jets, projected from walls of verdure on opposite sides of a gorge, meet midway, and mingling, fall thence perpendicularly down, changing, long ere they reach the water below, to a column of white spray.

Such is the magnificent panorama spread before the eyes of our castaways, who, despite their forlorn lot, cannot help regarding it with wonder and admiration. Nor is their wonder diminished by what they see and hear close at hand. Little did they expect to find parrots and humming-birds in that high southern latitude; yet a flock of the former chatter above their heads, feeding on the berries of the Winter's-bark; while numbers of the latter are seen, flitting to and fro, or poised on whirring wings before the bell-shaped blossoms of the fuchsias. [Note 3.] From the deeper recesses of the wood at intervals comes a loud, cackling cry, resembling the laugh of an idiot. It is the call-note of the black woodpecker. And, as if in response to it, a kingfisher, perched on the limb of a dead tree by the beach, now and then utters its shrill, ear-piercing scream.

Other fishing-birds of different species fly hither and thither over the water, now quite tranquil, the wind having died away.

A flock of white pelicans, in pursuit of finny prey, swim about the cove, their eyes looking into the depths, their long pick-axe beaks held ready for a plunge. Then, as a fish is sighted underneath, down go head and neck in a quick dart, soon to be drawn up with the victim writhing between the tips of the mandibles. But the prey is not secured yet. On each pelican attends a number of predatory gulls, wheeling over it in flight, and watching its every movement with a foregone and well-studied intent. For as soon as the fish is brought up, they swoop at it from all points with wild screams and flapping wings; and as the pelican cannot swallow the fish without first tossing it upward, the toss often proves fatal to its purpose. The prey let go, instead of falling back into the water, or down the pouch-like gullet held agape for it, is caught by one or more of the gulls, and those greedy birds continue the fight among themselves, leaving the pelican they have robbed to go diving again.

Night comes on, but not with the darkness anticipated. For still another wonder is revealed to them ere closing their eyes in sleep—the long continuance of twilight, far beyond anything of the kind they have ever experienced, Seagriff excepted. But its cause is known to them; the strange phenomenon being due to the fact that the sun, for some time after it has sunk below the horizon, continues to shine on the glistening ice of the glaciers and the snow of the mountain summits, thus producing a weird luminosity in the heavens, somewhat resembling the Aurora Borealis.

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Note 1. He discovered the Straits, or, more properly, Strait, in 1519. His name is usually given as "Magellan" by French and English writers, the Spaniards making it "Magallanes." But, as he was a native of Portugal, and Magalhaens is the Portuguese orthography, it should be the one preferred. By sealers and others, Tierra del Fuego is often called "Fireland." Lady Brassey heard it so called by the settlers at "Sandy Point," in the Strait.

Note 2. The beeches are the Fagus Betuloides and Fagus Antarchia. The former partakes also of the character of a birch. It is an evergreen, while the leaves of the other fall off in the autumn. The "Winter's-bark" (Drimys Winletii) is a laurel-like evergreen, which produces an aromatic bark, somewhat resembling cinnamon. It derives its name, not from the season, but from a Captain Winter, who first carried the bark to England in 1579.

Note 3. The Fuegian parrot, or paroquet, is known to naturalists as Psittacus Imaragdinus,—the humming-bird as Melisuga Kingii. It was long believed that neither parrots nor humming-birds existed in Tierra del Fuego; Buffon, with his usual incorrectness, alleging that the specimens brought from it were taken elsewhere; other learned closet naturalists insisted on the parrots reported to exist there being "sea-parrots" (auks).



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A CATASTROPHE NOT ANTICIPATED.

Another day dawns upon the castaways, with again a bright sun on the horizon; and Ned Gancy and Henry Chester, who have risen early, as they look out over the water, become witnesses of the curious behaviour of another Fuegian fishing-bird—the cormorant.

One of these birds, seemingly regardless of their presence, has come close to the ledge where the boat is lying, and has there caught a fish. But instead of gobbling it up or tearing it to pieces, as might be expected, the captor lets it go again, not involuntarily, but, as soon appears, designedly. The fish, alive and apparently uninjured, makes away through the water; but only for a short distance, ere it is followed by the cormorant and caught afresh. Then it is dropped a second time, and a third time seized, and so on through a series of catchings and surrenderings, just like those of a cat playing with a mouse.

In this case, however, the cruel sport has a different termination, by the cormorant being deprived of the prey it seemed so sure of. Not through the efforts of the fish itself, which now, badly damaged, swims but feebly; nor do the gulls appropriate it, but a wingless biped—no other than Ned Gancy.

"Chester, we shall have that fish for breakfast," he says, springing to his feet, and hastily stripping for a swim. Then, with a rush over the ledge, he plunges in, sending the cormorant off in affright, and taking possession of the prey it has left behind.

The fish proves to be a species of smelt, over two pounds in weight, and a welcome addition to their now greatly reduced larder.

As they have passed a restful night, all the members of the forlorn little party are up betimes; and soon "the doctor" is bestirring himself about their breakfast, in which the cormorant-caught fish is to play a conspicuous part.

The uprising sun reveals the landscape in a changed aspect, quite different from that seen at its setting, and even more surprisingly picturesque. The snowy mantle of Mount Darwin is no longer pure white, but of hues more attractive—a commingling of rose and gold; while the icicled cliffs on the opposite side of the cove, with the facades of glaciers, show every tint of blue from pale sky to deep beryl, darkening to indigo and purple in the deep sea-water at their bases. It is, or might be called, the iridescence of a land with rocks all opals, and trees all evergreens; for the dullest verdure here seems vivid by contrast with its icy and snowy surroundings.

"Oh, mamma! isn't it glorious?" exclaims Leoline, as she looks around upon the wonderful landscape. "It beats Niagara! If I only had my box of colours, I'd make a sketch of it."

To this outburst of enthusiastic admiration, the mother responds with but a faint smile. The late danger, from which they have had such a narrow escape, still gravely affects her spirits; and she dreads its recurrence, despite all assurances to the contrary. For she knows they are but founded on hope, and that there may be other tribes of cruel and hostile savages to be encountered. Even Seagriff still appears apprehensive, else why should he be looking so anxiously out over the water? Seated on the trunk of a fallen tree, pipe in mouth, he sends up wreathing curls of smoke among the branches of the Winter's-bark overhead. But he is not smoking tranquilly, as is his wont, but in short, quick puffs, while the expression on his features, habitually firm, tells of troubled thought.

"What are you gazing at, Chips?" questions Captain Gancy, who has noticed his uneasy look.

"At that glasheer, Captin'. The big 'un derect in front of us."

"Well, what of it?"

"Tears to me it bulges out beyond the line o' the cliff more'n we mout like it to. Please let me have a squint at it through the glass. My eyes aren't wuth much agin the dazzle o' all that ice an' snow."

"By all means. Take the glass, if that will help you," says the Captain, handing him the binocular, but secretly wondering why he wishes to examine the glacier so minutely, and what there is in the mass of blue congelation to be troubled about. But nothing further is said, he and all the rest remaining silent, so as not to interfere with Seagriffs observation. Not without apprehension, however, do they await the result, as the old sealer's words and manner indicate plainly that something is amiss.

And their waiting is for a short while only. Almost on the instant of getting the glacier within his field of view, Seagriff cries out, "Jest as I surspected! The end o' the ice air fur out from the rock,—ten or fifteen fathoms, I should say!"

"Well, and if it is," rejoins the skipper, "what does that signify to us?"

"A mighty deal, Captin'. Thet air, surposin' it should snap off jest now. An' sech a thing wouldn't be unusual. I wonder we haven't seed the like afore now, runnin' past so many glasheers ez we hev. Cewrus, too, our not comin' acrost a berg yet. I guess the ice's not melted sufficient for 'em to break away."

But now an appetising odour more agreeable to their nostrils than the perfume of the fuchsias, or the aromatic fragrance of the Winter's-bark, admonishes them of breakfast being served; the doctor likewise soon proclaiming it. And so for a time the glacier is forgotten.

But after the meal has been dispatched, it again becomes the subject of discourse, as the old sealer once more begins to regard it through the glass with evident apprehension.

"It 'ud seem beyond the possibility of belief," he says, "thet them conglomerations uv ice, hard froze an' lookin' ez tight fixed ez a mainstay, for all thet hev a downard slitherin' motion, jest like a stream o' water, tho' in coorse thousands or millions o' times slower."

"Oh! that's well understood," asserts the skipper, acquainted with the latest theory of glacier movement.

"So it may be, Captin'," pursues Seagriff; "but thar's somethin' 'bout these breakin' off an' becomin' bergs ez ain't so well understood, I reckin'; leastways, not by l'arned men. The cause of it air well enough know'd 'mong the seal-fishers ez frequent these soun's an' channels."

"What is the cause, Chips?" asked young Gancy, like all the others, interested in the subject of conversation.

"Wall, it's this, Mister Ned. The sea-water bein' warmer than the ice, melts the glasheer when thar's high-tide, an' the eend of it dips under; then at low tide,—bein', so to speak, undermined, an' not havin' the water to rest on,—it naterally sags down by its own weight, an' snaps off, ez ye'll all easily understan'."

"Oh! we quite understand," is the universal response, every one satisfied with the old sealer's explanation as to the origin of icebergs.

"How I should like to see one launched," exclaims Leoline; "that big one over there, for instance. It would make such a big plunge! Wouldn't it, Mr Chips?"

"Yes, Miss, sech a plunge thet ef this child tho't thar was any likelihood of it comin' loose from its moorin's while we're hyar, he wouldn't be smokin' his pipe so contented. Jest look at thet boat."

"The boat! what of her?" asks the skipper, in some apprehension, at length beginning to comprehend the cause of Seagriff's uneasiness.

"Wall, Captin', ef yon glasheer war to give off a berg, any sort of a big 'un, it mout be the means o' leavin' us 'ithout any boat at all."

"But how?"

"How? Why, by swampin' or smashin' the only one we've got, the which—"

"Thunder an' airthquakes! See yonder! The very thing we're talkin' 'bout, I vow!"

No need for him to explain his words and excited exclamations. All know what has called them forth: the berg is snapping off. All see the breaking up and hear the crash, loud as the discharge of a ship's broadside or a peal of thunder, till at length, though tardily, they comprehend the danger, as their eyes rest on a stupendous roller, as high as any sea the Calypso had ever encountered, coming toward them across the strait.

"To the boat!" shouts Seagriff, making down the bank, with all the men after him. They reach the landing before the roller breaks upon it, but, alas! to no purpose. Beach, to draw the boat up on, there is none, only the rough ledge of rocks; and the only way to raise it on this would be to lift it bodily out of the water, which cannot be done. For all that, they clutch hold of it, with determined grip, around the edge of the bow. But their united strength will prove as nothing against that threatening swell. For the roller, entering the confined water of the cove, has increased in height, and comes on with more tempestuous surge. Their effort proves futile, and nigh worse than futile to Henry Chester. For, as the boat is whisked out of their hands and swung up fathoms high, the English youth, heedless of Seagriff's shout, "Let go!" hangs on, bulldog-like, and is carried up along with her.

The others have retreated up the slope, beyond reach of the wave which threatens to bear him off in its backward flow. Seeing his danger, all cry out in alarm; and the voice of Leoline is heard above, crying out to her mother, "Oh! Henry is lost."

But no, Henry is not lost. Letting go before the boat comes down again, with a vigorous bound backward the agile youth heads the roller, getting well up the bank ere it washes over him. Wash over him it does, but only drenches him; for he has flung his arms around a barberry-bush, and holds it in firm embrace; so firm and fast that, when the water has surged back, he is still seen clinging to it—safe. But by the same subsidence the boat is dashed away, the keel striking on some rocks with a harsh sound, which tells of damage, if not total destruction. Still it floats, drifting outward, and for a while all seems well with it. Believing it to be so, the two youths rush to the tent, and each snatching an oar from it, prepare to swim out and bring the boat back. But before they can enter the water, a voice tells them their hope is vain, Captain Gancy himself calling out, "It's no use, boys! The gig's got a hole in its bottom, and is going down. Look!"

They do look, and they see that the boat is doomed. Only for an instant are their eyes upon it, before it is seen no more, having "bilged" and gone under, leaving but bubbles to mark the place of its disappearance.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A CHANGE OF QUARTERS DETERMINED ON.

No greater calamity than the loss of their boat could have overtaken the castaways, save losing life itself. It has made them castaways in the fullest sense of the word, as much as if left boatless on a desert isle in mid-ocean. Their situation is desperate, indeed, though for a time they scarce realise it. How can they, in so lovely a spot, teeming with animal life, and Nature, as it were, smiling around them? But the old sealer knows all that will soon be changed, experience reminding him that the brief bright summer will ere long be succeeded by dark dreary winter, with rain, sleet, and snow almost continuously. Then no food will be procurable, and to stay where they are would be to starve. Captain Gancy also recalls the attempts at colonising Tierra del Fuego, notably that made by Sarmiento at Port Famine in the Magellan Straits, where his whole colony, men, women, and children—nearly three hundred souls—miserably perished by starvation; and where, too, the lamented missionary, Gardner, with all his companions, succumbed to a similar fate. [Note 1.] The Captain remembers reading, too, that these colonists had at the start ample store of provisions, with arms and ammunition to defend themselves, and renew their stores. If they could not maintain life in Tierra del Fuego, what chance is there for a party of castaways, without weapons, and otherwise unfitted for prolonged sojourn in a savage land? Even the natives, supplied with perfect implements for fishery and the chase, and skilled in their use, have often a hard, and at times an unsuccessful struggle for existence. Darwin thus speaks of it:

"The inhabitants, living chiefly upon shell-fish, are obliged constantly to change their place of residence, but return at intervals to the same spot.—At night five or six of them, unprotected from the wind and rain of this tempestuous climate, sleep on the wet ground, coiled up like animals. Whenever it is low-water, they must rise to pick shell-fish from the rocks, and the women, winter and summer, either dive to collect sea-eggs, or sit patiently in their canoes, and with a baited hair-line jerk out small fish. If a seal is killed, or the floating carcase of a dead whale discovered, it is a feast. Such miserable food is assisted by a few tasteless berries and fungi. Nor are they exempt from famine, and, as a consequence, cannibalism, accompanied by parricide."

The old seal-fisher, familiar with these facts, keeps them to himself, though knowing the truth will in time reveal itself to all.

They get an inkling of it that very day, when the "doctor," proceeding to cook dinner, reports upon the state of the larder, in which there is barely the wherewithal for another meal. Nearly all the provisions brought away from the barque were in the gig, and are doubtless in it still—at the bottom of the sea. So the meal is eaten in a somewhat despondent mood, as after it little will remain for the morrow.

They get into better spirits soon after, however, on finding that Nature has furnished them with an ample store of provisions for the present, near at hand. Prospecting among the trees, they discover an edible fungus, known to sealers as the "beech-apple," from its being a parasite of the beech. It is about the size and shape of a small orange, and is of a bright yellow colour. When ripe it becomes honeycombed over the surface, and has a slightly sweetish taste, with an odour somewhat like that of a morel mushroom, to which it is allied. It can be eaten raw, and is so eaten by the Fuegian natives, with whom, for a portion of the year, it is the staple article of subsistence.

The castaways find large numbers of this valuable plant adhering to the birch-beeches—more than enough for present needs; while two species of fruit are also available as food—the berries of the arbutus and barberry.

Still, notwithstanding this plentitude of supply, the castaways make up their minds to abandon their present encampment, for a reason that becomes apparent soon after they see themselves boatless.

"There's no use in our stayin' longer hyar," says Seagriff, who first counsels a change of quarters. "Ef a vessel should chance to pass along outside, we couldn't well be in a worse place fur signalling or gettin' sighted by her. We'd hev but the ghost of a chance to be spied in sech a sercluded corner. Ther'fore we ought to cl'ar out of it, an' camp somewhar on the edge o' the open shore."

"In that I agree with you, Chips," responds the Captain, "and we may as well move at once."

"Thet's true, sir, ef we could move at oncet. But we can't—leastways not to-day."

"Why not?"

"It's too nigh night; we wouldn't hev time to git to the outer shore," explained the carpenter.

"Why, there's an hour of daylight yet, or more!"

"Thet's cl'ar enough, Captin'. But ef thar were two hours o' daylight, or twice thet, it wouldn't be enough."

"I don't understand you, Chips. The distance can't be more than two or three hundred yards."

"Belike it aren't more. But for all that, it'll take us the half of a day, ef not longer, to cover it."

"How so?" queried the skipper.

"Wal, the how is thet we can't go by the beach; thar bein' no beach. At the mouth o' the cove it's all cliff, right down to the water. I noticed thet as we war puttin' inter it. Not a strip o' strand at the bottom broad enough fur a seal to bask on. We'll hev to track it up over the hills, an' thet'll take no end o' time, an' plenty o' toilin', too—ye'll see, Captin'."

"I suppose, then, we must wait for morning," is the skipper's rejoinder, after becoming satisfied that no practicable path leads out of the cove between land and water.

This constrains them to pass another night on the spot that has proved so disastrous, and the morning after, to eat another meal upon it—the last they intend tasting there. A meagre repast it is; but their appetites are now on keen edge, all the keener from the supply of food being stinted. For by one of nature's perverse contrarieties, men feel hunger most when without the means of satisfying it, and most thirsty when no water can be had. It is the old story of distant skies looking brightest, and far-off fields showing greenest—the very difficulty of obtaining a thing whetting the desire to possess it, as a child craves some toy, that it soon ceases to care for when once in its possession. No such philosophic reflections occupy the thoughts of the castaways. All they think of, while at their scanty meal, is to get through with it as speedily as possible, and away from the scene of their disaster.

The breakfast over, the tent is taken down, the boat-sail folded into the most portable form, with mast, oars, and everything made ready for overland transport. They have even apportioned the bundles, and are about to begin the uphill climb, when, lo! the Fuegians!

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Note 1. There is now a colony in the Straits of Magellan, not far from Port Famine, at Sandy Point—the "Punta de Arenas" of the old Spanish navigators. The colony is Chilian, and was established as a penal settlement, though it is now only nominally so. The population is about fourteen hundred.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A FUEGIAN FISH-HUNT.

Yes, the savages are once more in sight, a canoe-full of them just appearing around the point of the cliff, closely followed by another, and another, till four are under view in front of the cove. They are as yet far out on the sea-arm; but as they have come along it from the west, the castaways suppose them to be some of their late assailants, still persistently continuing the pursuit.

But no! Captain Gancy, quickly sighting through his binocular, declares them different—at least, in their array. They are not all men, more than half being women and children, while no warlike insignia can be discerned—neither white feathers nor chalked faces.

Seagriff, in turn taking the glass, further makes out that the men have fish-spears in their hands, and an implement he recognises as a fizgig, while the heads of dogs appear over the gunwales of the canoes, nearly a dozen in each.

"It's a fishin' party," he pronounces. "For all thet, we'd best make a hide of it; thar's no trustin' 'em, anyway, so long as they think they hev the upper hand. A good thing our fire has gone out, else they'd 'a' spied it afore this. An' lucky the bushes be in front, or they'd see us now. Mebbe they'll pass on along the arm, an'—No! they're turnin' in toward the cove!"

This can be told by the apparent shortening of the canoes, as they are brought head around toward the inlet.

Following the old sealer's advice, earnestly urged, all slip back among the trees, the low-hanging branches of which afford a screen for concealment like a closed curtain. The bundles are taken away, and the camp-ground is cleared of everything likely to betray its having been lately occupied by white people. All this they are enabled to do without being seen by the savages, a fringe of evergreens between the camp-ground and the water effectually masking their movements.

"But shouldn't we go farther up?" says the skipper, interrogating Seagriff. "Why not keep on over the hill?"

"No, Captin'; we mustn't move from hyar. We couldn't, 'ithout makin' sech a racket ez they'd be sure to hear. Besides, thar's bare spots above, whar they mout sight us from out on the water; an' ef they did, distance wouldn't sarve us a bit. The Feweegins kin climb up the steepest places, like squir'ls up a tree. Once seen by 'em, we'd stan' no chance with 'em in a run. Ther'fore, we'd better abide quietly hyar. Mebbe, arter all, they mayn't come ashore. 'Tain't one o' thar landin'-places or we'd 'a' foun' traces of 'em. The trees would 'a' been barked all about. Oh, I see what they're up to now. A fish-hunt— surround wi' thar dogs. Thet's thar bizness in the cove."

By this, the four canoes have arrived at the entrance to the inlet, and are forming in line across it at equal distances from one another, as if to bar the way against anything that may attempt to pass outward. Just such is their design, the fish being what they purpose enfilading.

At sight of them and the columns of ascending smoke, the pelicans and other fishing-birds take flight in a chorus of screams, some to remain soaring overhead, others flying altogether out of sight. The water is left without a ripple, and so clear that the spectators on shore, from their elevated point of view, can see to its bottom, all around the shore where it is shallow. They now observe fish of several sorts swimming affrightedly to and fro, and see them as plainly as through the glass walls of an aquarium.

Soon the fish-hunters, having completed their "cordon," and dropped the dogs overboard, come on up the cove, the women plying the paddles, the men with javelins upraised, ready for darting. The little foxy dogs swim abreast of and between the canoes, driving the fish before them, as sheep-dogs drive sheep, one or another diving under at intervals to intercept such as attempt to escape outward. For in the translucent water they can see the fish far ahead, and, trained to the work, they keep guard against a break from these through the enclosing line. Soon the fish are forced up to the inner end of the cove, where it is shoalest, and then the work of slaughter commences. The dusky fishermen, standing in the canoes and bending over, now to this side, now that, plunge down their spears and fizgigs, rarely failing to bring up a fish of one sort or another; the struggling victim shaken off into the bottom of the canoe, there gets its death-blow from the boys.

For nearly an hour the curious aquatic chase is carried on, not in silence, but amid a chorus of deafening noises—the shouts of the savages and the barking and yelping of their dogs mingling with the shrieking of the seabirds overhead. And thrice is the cove "drawn" by the canoes, which are taken back to its mouth, the line re-formed, and the process repeated till a good supply of the fish best worth catching has been secured.

And now the spectators of the strange scene await with dread anticipation the approaching crisis. Will the savage fishermen come ashore, or go off without landing? In the former event, the castaways have small hope of remaining undiscovered. True, they are well concealed, not an inch of face or person is exposed; the captain and Seagriff alone are cautiously doing the vidette duty. Still, should the Fuegians come on shore, it must be at the ledge of rocks where of late lay the boat, the only possible beaching-place, and not half a stone's throw from the spot where they are concealed.

"The thing we've most to be afeerd of is thar dogs," mutters Seagriff. "Ef they should land, the little curs'll be sure to scent us. An'— sakes alive!—what's that?"

The final exclamation, though involuntarily uttered aloud, is not heard, even by those standing beside him. Had it been the loudest shout it could not have been distinguished amid the noise that called forth and accompanied it, for it is drowned by the noise that called it forth. A thundering crash, followed by a loud crackling which continues for several seconds, and during its continuance drowning all other sounds. There is no mystery about it, however; it is but a falling tree—the one behind which "the doctor" had been standing, his hands pressed against it for support. Yielding to curiosity, he had been peering around its trunk contrary to orders, a disobedience that has cost him dear; for, as if in punishment, his bulky body has gone along with the tree, face foremost, and far down the slope.

Lost to sight in the cloud of dust that has puffed up over it, all believe him killed, crushed, buried amid the debris of shattered branches. But no! In a trice he is seen on his feet again coming out of the dust-cloud, no longer with a black skin, but chocolate-brown all over, woolly pate and clothing included, as though he had been for days buried in tan-bark! sneezing too, with violence. It is a spectacle to make the most sober-sided laugh, but the occasion is not one for merriment. All are too alarmed for that now, feeling sure of being discovered by the savages. How can it be otherwise, after such a catastrophe—nature itself, as it were, betraying them?

Yet to their pleased surprise it proves otherwise, and on the dust settling down, they see the savages still in their canoes, with not a face turned toward the land, none, at least, seeming to heed what has happened. The old sealer, however, is not surprised at their indifference, guessing its cause. He knows that in the weird forests of Tierra del Fuego there is many a tree standing, to all appearance sound in trunk, branches, everything, yet rotten from bark to heartwood, and ready to topple over at the slightest touch, even if but a gun be rested against it. The fall of such trees being a thing of common occurrence, and the natives accustomed to it, they never give it a second thought. The fishers in the canoes have not heeded it, while the sneezing of Caesar has been unheard by them amid the noises made by themselves, their dogs, and the shrieking seabirds still in full fracas overhead.

In the end, the very thing by which the castaways feared betrayal proves their salvation; for the Fuegians do land at length, and on the ledge. But, luckily, they do not stay on shore for any great time—only long enough to make partition of their spoil and roughly clean the fish. By good luck, also, the bits of fish thrown to them fully engage the attention of the dogs, which otherwise would have strayed inland, and so have come upon the party in hiding.

But perhaps the best instance of favouring fortune is the tree pushed down by "the doctor," this having fallen right over the ground of the abandoned camp, and covered under a mass of rotten wood and dust the place where the tent stood, the fire-hearth, half-consumed faggots, everything. But for this well-timed obliteration, the sharp-eyed savages could not have failed to note the traces of its recent occupancy. As it is, they have no suspicion either of that or of the proximity of those who occupied it, so much engrossed are they with the product of their fish-hunt, a catch unusually large.

Still, the apprehensions of the concealed spectators are not the less keen, and to them it is a period of dread, irksome suspense, emphatically a mauvais quart d'heure. But, fortunately, it lasts not much longer. To their unspeakable delight, they at length see the savages bundle back into their canoes, and, pushing off, paddle away out of the cove.

As the last boat-load of them disappears around the point of rocks, Captain Gancy fervently exclaims, "Again we may thank the Lord for deliverance!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A ROUGH OVERLAND ROUTE.

As soon as they are convinced that the canoes are gone for good, Seagriff counsels immediate setting out on the journey so unexpectedly delayed. It is now noon, and it may be night ere they reach their destination. So says he, an assertion that seems strange, as he admits the distance may be but a few hundred yards, certainly not over a mile.

They are about taking up their bundles to start, when a circumstance arises that causes further delay; this time, however, a voluntary and agreeable one. In a last glance given to the cove ere leaving it, two flocks of gulls are seen, each squabbling about something that floats on the surface of the water. Something white, which proves to be a dead fish, or rather a couple of them, which have been overlooked by the hunter-fishermen. They are too large for the gulls to lift and carry away; hence a crowd of the birds are buffeting their wings in conflict above them.

"A bit of rare good luck for us!" cries young Gancy, dropping a pair of oars he has shouldered. "Come, Harry! we'll go a-fishing, too."

The English youth takes the hint, and, without another word, both rush down to the water's edge, where, stripping off coats, shoes, and other impedimenta, they plunge in.

In a few seconds the fish are reached and secured, to the great grief and anger of the gulls, who, now screaming furiously, wheel round the heads of the swimmers until they are on shore again.

Worth all their trouble is the spoil retrieved, as the fish prove to be a species of mullet, each of them over six pounds in weight.

Now assured of having something to eat at the end of their journey, they set out in much better spirits. But they make not many steps—if steps they can be called—before discovering the difficulties at which the old sealer has hinted, saying, "ye'll see." Steps, indeed! Their progress is more a sprawl than a walk; a continuous climb and scramble over trunks of fallen trees, many so decayed as to give way under their weight, letting them down to their armpits in a mass of sodden stuff, as soft as mud, and equally bedaubing. Even if disposed, they could no longer laugh at the cook's changed colour, all of them now showing much the same.

But no place could be less incentive to laughter than that which they are in. The humid atmosphere around them has a cold, clammy feel, and the light is no better than shadowy twilight. A weird, unearthly silence pervades it, only broken by the harsh twitter of a diminutive bird—a species of creeper—that keeps them company on the way, the dismal woo-woo-a of an owl, and, at intervals, the rattling call-note of the Fuegian woodpecker. The last, though laugh-like in itself, is anything but provocative of mirth in those who listen to it, knowing that it is a sound peculiar to the loneliest, gloomiest recesses of the forests.

After toiling up the steep acclivity for nearly two hours, they arrive at a point where the tall timber abruptly ends. There are trees beyond—beeches, like the others, but so dwarfed and stunted as to better deserve the name of bushes. Bushes of low growth, but of ample spread; for in height, less than twenty inches, while their branches extend horizontally to more than that number of feet! They are as thickly branched as the box-edging of a garden walk, and so interwoven with several species of shrubs—arbutus, berberis, chamatis, donaria, and escalonia—as to present a smooth matted surface, seemingly that of the ground itself, under a close-cropped sward.

Mistaking it for this, the two young men, who are in the lead, glad at having escaped from the gloom of the forest with its many obstructions, gleefully strike out into what they believe to be open ground, only to find their belief a delusion, and the path as difficult as ever. For now it is over the tops of growing trees instead of the trunks of fallen ones, both alike impracticable. Every now and then their feet break through and become entangled, their trousers are torn and their shins scratched by the thorns of the berberries.

The others, following, fare a little better, from being forewarned, and proceeding with greater caution. But for all it is a troublesome march, calling for agility. Now a quick rush, as if over thin ice or a treacherous quagmire; anon, a trip-up and tumble, with a spell of floundering before feet can be recovered.

Fortunately, the belt of Lilliputian forest is of no great breadth, and beyond it, higher up, they come upon firmer ground, nearly bare of vegetation, which continues to the summit of the ridge.

Reaching this at length, they get a scenic view of "Fireland," grander than any yet revealed to them. Mountains to the north, mountains to the south, east, and west; mountains piled on mountains all around, of every form and altitude. There are domes, cones, and pyramids; ridges with terraced sides and table-tops; peaks, spires, and castellated pinnacles, some of them having resemblance to artificial masonwork, as if of Titans! In the midst of this picturesque conglomeration, towering conspicuously above all, as a giant over ordinary men, is the snow-cone of Mount Darwin, on the opposite side of the strait, fit mate for Sarmiento, seen in the same range, north-westward. Intersecting the mountain chains, and trending in every direction, are deep ravine-like valleys, some with sloping sides thickly-wooded, others presenting facades of sheer cliffs, with rocks bare and black. Most of them are narrow, dark, and dismal, save where illumined by glaciers, from whose glistening surface of milky-white and beryl-blue the sun's rays are vividly reflected. Nor are they valleys at all, but are arms of the sea, straits, sounds, channels, bays, inlets, many of them with water as deep as the ocean itself. Of every conceivable shape and trend are they; so ramifying and communicating with one another, that Tierra del Fuego, long supposed to be a mainland, is but an archipelago of islands closely clustered together.

From their high point of view on the ridge's crest, the castaways see a reach of water wider than the sea-arm immediately beneath them, of which, however, it is a continuation. It extends eastward beyond the verge of vision, all the way straight as an artificial canal, and so like one in other ways as to suggest the idea of having been dug by the same Titans who did the masonwork on the mountains. It occupies the entire attention of Seagriff, who, looking along it toward the east, at length says, "Thet's the Beagle Channel; the way we were to hev gone but fur the swampin' of our boat. An' to think we'd 'a' been runnin' 'long it now, 'nstead o' stannin' helpless hyar! Jest our luck!"

To his bitter reflection no one makes response. Captain Gancy is too busy with his binocular, examining the shores of the sea-arm, while the others, fatigued by their long arduous climb, are seated upon rocks at some distance off, resting.

After a time the skipper, re-slinging his glass, makes known the result of his observation, saying, "I can see nothing of the canoes anywhere. Probably they've put into some other cove along shore to the westward. At all events, we may as well keep on down."

And down they go, the descent proving quicker and easier than the ascent. Not that the path is less steep or beset with fewer obstructions, but their tumbles are now all in the right direction, with no backward slidings. Forward falls they have and many; every now and then a wild up-throwing of arms ends with a fall at full length upon the face. They succeed, however, in reaching the water's edge again without serious injury received by any, though all are looking very wet, draggled, and dirty.

At the place where they have now reached the beach, there is a slight curving indentation in the shore-line; not enough to be called a bay, nor to interfere with their chance of being seen by any ship that may pass along the strait. It might be supposed they would choose the most conspicuous point for their new encampment. But their choice is influenced by other considerations; chief of these being the fact that near the centre of the curve they find a spot altogether suited to their purpose—a little platform, high and dry, itself clear of trees, but surrounded and sheltered by them.

That they are not the first human beings to set foot on it is evinced by the skeleton of a wigwam found standing there, while on the beach below is a heap of shells recognisable as a "kitchen midden." [Note 1.] These evidences of former occupancy also proclaim it of old date. The floor of the wigwam is overgrown with grass and weeds, while the shell-heap is also covered with greenery, the growth upon it being wild celery and scurvy-grass, two species of plants that give promise of future utility. Like promise is there in another object near at hand—a bed of kelp, off shore, just opposite, marking a reef, the rocks of which will evidently be bare at ebb-tide. From this shell-fish may be taken, as they have been before, being, no doubt, the raison d'etre of the wigwam and "kitchen midden."

In addition to these advantages, the beech-apples and berries are as plentiful here as at the encampment in the cove, with still another species found not far-off. At the western extremity of the indentation a slightly elevated ridge projects out into the water, treeless, but overgrown with bushes of low stature, which are thickly covered with what at a distance appear to be bunches of red blossoms, but on closer inspection prove to be berries—cranberries.

Per contra to all these advantages, other indications about the place are not so pleasing. The wigwam tells of their still being in the territory of the hostile tribe from which they so miraculously escaped.

"Ailikoleep!" is the exclamation of Seagriff, as soon as he sets eyes on it; "we're in the country o' the rascally savagers yit!"

"How do you know that?" inquires the skipper.

"By the build o' thet wigwam, an' the bulk of it. Ez ye see, it's roun'-topped, whereas them o' the Tekineekers, an' other Feweegins, run up to a sharp p'int, besides bein' bigger an' roomier. Thar's another sign, too, of its bein' Ailikoleep. They kiver thar wigwams wi' seal-skins, 'stead o' grass, which the Tekineekas use. Ef this hed been thatched wi' grass, we'd see some o' the rubbish inside, an' the floor 'd be hollered out—which it's not. Yes, the folks that squatted hyar hev been Ailikoleeps. But 'tain't no surprise to me, ez I heern some words pass 'mong the fishin' party, which show'd 'em to be thet same. Wal," he continues, more hopefully, "thar's one good thing: they haven't set fut on this groun' fur a long while, which air some airnest o' thar hevin' gi'n the place up fur good. Those dead woods tell o' thar last doin's about hyar."

He points to some trees standing near, dead, and with most of the bark stripped from their trunks.

"They've peeled 'em fur patchin' thar canoes, an' by the look of it, thet barkin' was done more'n three years ago."

What he says does little to restore confidence. The fact of the fishing party having been Ailikoleeps is too sure evidence that danger is still impending. And such danger! It only needs recalling the late attack— the fiendish aspect of the savages, with their furious shouts and gestures, the darting of javelins and hurling of stones—to fully realise what it is. With that fearful episode fresh in their thoughts, the castaways require no further counsel to make them cautious in their future movements.

The first of them is the pitching their tent, which is set up so as to be screened from view of any canoe passing along the sea-arm; and for their better accommodation, the wigwam is re-roofed, as it, too, is invisible from the water. No fire is to be made during daylight, lest its smoke should betray them; and when kindled at night for cooking purposes, it must be done within the wood, whence not a glimmer of it may escape outward. A lookout is to be constantly kept through the glass by one or another taking it in turns, to look out, not alone for enemies, but for friends—for that ship which they still hope may come along the Beagle Channel.

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Note 1. These shell-heaps, or "kitchen middens," are a feature of Fuegian scenery. They are usually found wherever there is a patch of shore level enough to land upon; but the beach opposite a bed of kelp is the place where the largest are met with. In such situations the skeletons of old wigwams are also encountered, as the Fuegians, on deserting them, always leave them standing, probably from some superstitious feeling.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

BY THE "KITCHEN MIDDEN."

The programme determined on is carried out to the letter. But as the days pass, and no ship appears, their impatience becomes despondency— almost despair. Yet this is for the best, as it strengthens a resolution already in their thoughts, but not finally decided upon. This is to build a boat. Nor, in this case, is necessity—mother of invention—the sole impelling influence. Other circumstances aid in suggesting the scheme, because they favour its execution. There is timber in plenty on the spot, needing only to be hewn into shape and put together. The oars, mast, and sail are already on hand; but, above all, Chips is a ship's carpenter, capable of turning out any sort of craft, from a dinghy to the biggest of long-boats.

All these advantages taken into account, the task is set about without further hesitation, and hopefully. A great drawback, however, is their not being provided with proper tools. They have only a common wood-axe, a hand-saw, hammer, auger, and their sailor-knives; nor would they be so well off but for having had them on shore during their brief sojourn in the cove. Other tools left in the gig are doubtless in her still.

Doing their best with those on hand, the axe is first brought into play, the negro being the one to wield it. In early life he has cut down many a tree on the banks of the Mississippi, hundreds bigger than any to be found in the Fuegian forests. So with a confident air he attacks the tree which Seagriff points out to be felled first, saying, "Dis nigger fetch it down quick as de shake ob a nanny-goat's tail, see if him don't."

And he proceeds to confirm his boast by a vigorous assault upon the tree, a beech, one of those that have been barked. This circumstance, too, is in their favour, and saves them time, for the barked trees having been long dead, their timber is now dry and seasoned, ready for working up at once. But caution is called for in selecting those to be cut down. Were they taken indiscriminately, much of Caesar's labour might be thrown away; for, as has been said, many of the trees are heart-decayed, without showing outward sign of it, the result of an ever-humid atmosphere. Aware of this, Chips tries each one by tapping it with the auger before Caesar lays his axe to it. [Note 1.]

For days after, the chipping strokes of the axe, with the duller thuds of wood mallets on wedges, awaken echoes in the Fuegian forest such as may never have been heard there before. When felled, the trunks are cut to the proper length, and then split into rough planks by means of wedges, and are afterwards smoothed with the knives.

With such insufficient tools, the work is necessarily slow, and is still further retarded by another requirement, food, which has meanwhile to be procured. The supply, however, proves less precarious than was anticipated, the kelp-bed yielding an unlimited amount of shell-fish. Daily at ebb-tide, when the rocks are uncovered, the two youths swim out to it and bring off a good number of limpets and mussels; they also continue to catch other fish, and now and then a calf seal is clubbed, which affords a change of diet, a delicate one, too, the fry of the young seal being equal to that of lamb. The scurvy-grass and wild celery, moreover, enable "the doctor" to turn out more than one variety of soup.

But for the still pervading fear of a visit from the savages, and other anxieties about the future, their existence would be tolerable, if not enjoyable. It is in no way monotonous, constant work in the construction of the boat, with other tasks, securing them against that; and, in such intervals of leisure as they have, kind Nature here, as elsewhere, treats them to many a curious spectacle. One is afforded by the "steamer-duck," [Note 2] a bird of commonest occurrence in Fuegian waters; it is of the genera of Oceanic ducks or geese, having affinity with both. It is of gigantic size, specimens having been taken over three feet in length and weighing thirty pounds. It has an enormous head—hence one of its names, Loggerhead duck—with a hard powerful beak for smashing open the shells of molluscs, which form its principal food. Its wings are so short and weak that flight in the air is denied it. Still it uses them effectually in flapping, which, aided by the beating of its broad webbed feet, upon stout legs set far back on the body, enables it to skim over the surface of the water at the rate of fifteen miles an hour! In its progress, says Darwin, "it makes such a noise and splashing that the effect is exceedingly curious." The great naturalist further states that he is "nearly sure the steamer-duck moves its wings alternately, instead of both together, as other birds move theirs." It is needless to say that it is from this propulsion by its wings, like the paddles of a steam-vessel, that the bird has derived the name by which it is now best known. But it has even yet another, or had in those days when steam was unknown, the old navigators of Narborough's time calling it the Racehorse, by reason of its swiftness. A flock habitually frequents the kelp-bed, so that the boat-builders have them almost continuously before their eyes, and derive amusement from watching their odd ways and movements; listening also to the strange sounds that proceed from them. At ebb-tide, when the rocks are above water, the steamers assemble on them, and, having finished their repast of shell-fish, sit pluming themselves, all the while giving utterance to a chorus of noises that more resembles the croaking of bull-frogs than the calling of birds. They are shy notwithstanding, both difficult to approach and hard to kill, the last on account of their strong bony skulls and dense coat of feathers. But no one much cares to kill them; their flesh tasting so rank and fishy, that the man must be hungry who could eat, much less relish it. Withal, sailors who have been for months on a diet of "salt junk," not only eat, but pronounce it highly palatable.

Seals are observed every day; on one occasion a seal-mother giving a curious display of maternal solicitude in teaching her calf to swim. First taking hold of it by the flipper, and for a while supporting it above water, with a shove she sends the youngster adrift, leaving it to shift for itself. In a short time the little creature becomes exhausted; she takes a fresh grip on its flipper, and again supports it till it has recovered breath, after which there is another push off, followed by a new attempt to swim, the same process being several times repeated to the end of the lesson.

A still rarer and more remarkable spectacle is furnished by a couple of whales. One calm clear morning, with the water of the strait waveless and smooth as a mirror, two of these grand cetaceans are seen swimming along, one in the wake of the other, and so close in shore that they might almost be reached with the boat-hook. As they swim past the spot where the boat-builders are at work, they, from their elevated position, can look down on their spout-holes, and even see them wink! The huge creatures, slowly gliding on, pass under a beech-tree growing by the water's edge, so near that their heads are almost brushed by its drooping branches. While still beneath it one of them blows, sending aloft a spout that, returning in a shower of spray, falls upon the leaves with a pattering as of heavy rain.

Soon after, sheering off into mid-channel, and continuing their course, they blow again and again, each steam-like spray, with the sun upon it, showing like a silvery cloud, which hangs in the air for more than a minute ere becoming altogether dissipated.

The marine monsters have come along the arm from the west, and are proceeding eastward—no doubt making the traverse from ocean to ocean, in the same direction as the castaways propose to go, if permitted to finish their boat. But will they be permitted? That is the ever-recurring question, and constant cause of uneasiness. Their anxiety about it becomes even keener as the time passes, and their task draws nearer completion. For, although weeks have now elapsed since the departure of the fishing party, and nothing more has been seen of them or any other savages, nor have any fires been visible at night, nor any smoke by day—still the Fuegians may appear at any moment; and their fears on this score are not diminished by what Seagriff says in giving the probable reason for their non-appearance:

"I guess they've gone out seaward, along the west coast, seal-huntin'. The old seals are tamer at this seezun then any other, an' easier stolen upon. But the year's on the turn now, an' winter's settin' in; therefur, we may look out any minute for the ugly critters comin' soon. Ef we only hed the boat finished an' afloat! How I wish she was in the water now!"

As all wish the same, there is no relaxation of effort to bring about the desired end. On the contrary, his words inspire them to renewed energy for hastening its accomplishment.

Alas! all to no purpose. One morning at daybreak, while on the lookout with his glass, Captain Gancy sees coming eastward, along the arm, a fleet of canoes crowded with people, to all appearance the same craft encountered in Whale-boat Sound.

Believing that they are the same, he cries out in a voice that quivers, despite his efforts to keep it firm, "There they are at last! Heaven have mercy on us!"

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Note 1. Nearly all the larger trees in the Fuegian forests have the heartwood decayed, and are worthless as timber. Out of fifteen cut down by Captain King's surveying party, near Port Famine, more than half proved to be rotten at the heart.

Note 2. The Micropterus brachypterus of Quoy and Guimard. The "steamer-duck" is a feature almost peculiar to the inland Fuegian waters, and has always been a bird of note among sailors, like the "Cape pigeons" and "Mother Carey's chickens." There is another and smaller species, called the "flying steamer," as it is able to mount into the air. It is called by naturalists Micropterus Patachonica.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

UNWELCOME VISITORS.

"There they are at last! Heaven have mercy on us!" At these grave words, more fear-inspiring from being spoken by Captain Gancy, work is instantly suspended, the boat-builders dropping their tools as though they burned the hands that grasped them.

For some minutes the alarm runs high, all thinking their last hour is at hand. How can they think otherwise, with their eyes bent on those black objects, which, though but as specks in the far distance, grow bigger while they stand gazing at them, and which they know to be canoes full of cruel cannibal savages? For they have no doubt that the approaching natives are the Ailikoleeps. The old Ailikoleep wigwam, and the fact that the party that so lately visited the cove were of this tribe, make it evident that this is Ailikoleep fishing-ground, while the canoes now approaching seem to correspond in number with those of the party that assailed them. If they be the same, and if they should come on shore by the kitchen midden, then small hope of more boat-building, and, as is only too likely, small hope of life for the builders.

One chance alone now prevents the castaways from yielding to utter despair—the savages may pass on without landing. In that case they cannot be seen, nor will their presence there be suspected. With scrupulous adherence to their original plan, they have taken care that nothing of their encampment shall be visible from the water; tent, boat-timbers—everything—are screened on the water side by a thick curtain of evergreens. Their fire is always out during the day, and so there is no tell-tale smoke to betray them.

Soon Captain Gancy observes what further allays apprehension. With the glass still at his eye, he makes out the savages to be of both sexes and all ages—even infants being among them, in the laps of, or strapped to, their mothers. Nor can he see any warlike insignia—nothing white—the colour that in all other countries is emblematic of peace, but which, by strange contrariety, in Tierra del Fuego is the sure symbol of war.

The people in the canoes, whoever they may be, are evidently on a peaceful expedition; possibly they are some tribe or community on its way to winter quarters. And they may not be Ailikoleeps after all; or, at all events, not the former assailants of Whale-boat Sound.

These tranquillising reflections occur while the Fuegians are yet far-off. When first sighted, they were on the opposite side of the strait, closely hugging the land, the water in mid-channel being rough. But, as they come nearer, they are seen to change course and head diagonally across for the southern side, which looks as if they intended putting in at the old wigwam. Doubtless some of them may have once lived in it, and eaten of the molluscs, the shells of which are piled upon the kitchen midden.

The castaways note this movement with returning alarm, now almost sure that an encounter is inevitable. But again are they gratified at seeing the canoes turn broadside toward them, with bows set sharp for the southern shore, and soon pass from sight.

Their disappearance is caused by the projecting spit, behind which they have paddled, when closing in upon the land.

For what purpose have they put in there? That is the question now asked of one another by the boat-builders. They know that, on the other side of the promontory, there is a deep bay or sound running far inland; how far they cannot tell, having given it only careless glances while gathering cranberries. Probably the Fuegians have gone up it, and that may be the last of them. But what if they have landed on the other side of the spit to stay there? In this case, they will surely at some time come round, if but to despoil the kelp-bed of its shell-fish treasures.

All is conjecture now, with continuing apprehension and suspense. To put an end to the latter, the two youths, alike impatient and impetuous, propose a reconnaissance, to go to the cranberry ridge and take a peep over it.

"No!" objects Seagriff, restraining them. "Ef the savagers are ashore on t'other side, an' should catch sight o' ye, yer chances for gettin' back hyar wouldn't be worth counting on. They can run faster than chased foxes, and over any sort o' ground. Therefur, it's best fer ye to abide hyar till we see what's to come of it."

So counselled, they remain, and for hours after nothing more is seen either of the canoes or of their owners, although constant watch is kept for them. Confidence is again in the ascendant, as they now begin to believe that the savages have a wintering-place somewhere up the large inlet, and are gone to it, maybe to remain for months. If they will stay but a week, all will be well, as by that time the boat will be finished, launched, and away.

Confidence of brief duration, dispelled almost as soon as conceived! The canoes again appear on the open water at the point of the promontory, making around it, evidently intending to run between the kelp-bed and the shore, and probably to land by the shell-heap. With the castaways it is a moment of dismay. No longer is there room for doubt; the danger is sure and near. All the men arm themselves as best they can, with boat-hook, axe, mallet, or other carpentering tool, resolved on defending themselves to the death.

But now a new surprise and puzzle greets them. As the canoes, one after another, appear around the point, they are seen to be no longer crowded, but each seems to have lost nearly half its crew. And of those remaining nearly all are women and children—old women, too, with but the younger of the girls and boys. A few aged men are among them, but none of the middle-aged or able-bodied of either sex. Where are these? and for what have they left the canoes? About this there is no time for conjecture. In less than five minutes after their re-appearance, the paddled craft are brought to shore by the shell-heap, and all—men, women, children, and dogs—scramble out of them. The dogs are foremost, and are first to find that the place is already in possession. The keen-scented Fuegian canines, with an instinctive antipathy to white people, immediately on setting paw upon land, rush up to the camp and surround it, ferociously barking and making a threatening show of teeth; and it is only by vigorously brandishing the boat-hook that they can be kept off.

Their owners, too, are soon around the camp; as they come within sight of its occupants, one after another crying out in surprise, "Akifka akinish!" ("White man!")

The castaways now see themselves begirt by an array of savage creatures, such as they have never seen before, though they have had dealings with uncivilised beings in many lands. Two score ugly old women, wrinkled and blear-eyed, and with tangled hair hanging over their faces, every one a match for Macbeth's witches, and with them a number of old men stoop-shouldered, and of wizard aspect, each a very Caliban. Even the boys and girls have an impish, unearthly look, like the dwarfs that figure on the stage in a Christmas pantomime. But neither old nor young show fear, or any sign of it. On the contrary, on every face is a fierce, bold expression, threatening and aggressive, while the hoarse guttural sounds given out by them seem less like articulate speech than like the chattering of apes. Indeed, some of the old men are themselves more like monkeys than human beings, reminding Captain Gancy of the time when he was once beset in a South African kloof, or ravine, by a troop of barking and gibbering dog-faced baboons.

For a time all is turmoil and confusion, with doubting fear on the part of the white people, who cannot tell what is to be the issue. Mrs Gancy and Leoline have retired into the tent, while the men stand by its entrance, prepared to defend it. They make no demonstration of hostility, however, but keep their weapons as much as possible out of sight, and as calmly as possible await the action of the savages. To show distrust might give offence, and court attack—no trifling matter, notwithstanding the age and apparent imbecility of the savages. Seagriff knows, if the others do not, that the oldest and feeblest of them—woman or man—would prove a formidable antagonist; and, against so many, he and his four men companions would stand but a poor chance. Luckily, he recalls a word or two of their language which may conciliate them and, as soon as he has an opportunity of making himself heard, he cries out, in a friendly tone, "Arre! Cholid!" ("Brothers! Sisters!")

This appeal has the effect intended, or seems to have. With exclamations of astonishment at hearing an akifka akinish address them in their own tongue, the expression of their faces becomes less fierce, and they desist from menacing gestures. One of the men, the oldest, and for this reason having chief authority, draws near and commences patting Seagriff on the chest and back alternately, all the while giving utterance to a gurgling, "chucking" noise that sounds somewhat like the cluck of a hen when feeding her chicks.

Having finished with the old sealer, who has reciprocated his quaint mode of salutation, he extends it to the other three whites, one after the other. But as he sees "the doctor," who, at the moment, has stepped from within the wigwam, where he had been unperceived, there is a sudden revulsion of feeling among the savages—a return to hostility, the antipathy of all Fuegians to the African negro being proverbially bitter. Strange and unaccountable is this prejudice against the negro by a people almost the lowest in humanity's scale.

"Ical shiloke! Uftucla!" ("Kill the black dog!") they cry out in spiteful chorus, half a dozen of them making a dash at him.

Seagriff throws himself in front, to shield him from their fury, and, with arms uplifted, appealingly calls out, "Ical shiloke—zapello!" ("The black dog is but a slave.")

At this the old man makes a sign, as if saying the zapello is not worth their anger, and they retire, but reluctantly, like wolves forced from their prey. Then, as if by way of appeasing their spite, they go stalking about the camp, picking up and secreting such articles as tempt their cupidity.

Fortunately, few things of any value have been left exposed, the tools and other highly-prized chattels having been stowed away inside the tent. Luckily, also, they had hastily carried into it some dried fungus and fish cured by the smoking process, intended for boat stores. But Caesar's outside larder suffers to depletion. In a trice it is emptied—not a scrap being left by the prowling pilferers. And everything, as soon as appropriated, is eaten raw, just as it is found— seal's flesh, shell-fish, beech-apples, berries, everything! Even a large squid, a hideous-looking monster of the octopus tribe thrown on the beach near by, is gobbled up by them as though it were the greatest of delicacies.

Hunger—ravenous, unappeasable hunger—seems to pervade the whole crew; no doubt the fact that the weather has been for a long time very stormy has interfered with their fishing, and otherwise hindered their procuring food. Like all savages, the Fuegian is improvident—more so, even, than some of the brute creation—and rarely lays up store for the future, and hence is often in terrible straits, at the very point of starvation. Clearly, it is so with those just landed; and having eaten up everything eatable that they can lay their hands on, there is a scattering off amongst the trees in quest of their most reliable food staple—the beech-apple. Some go gathering mussels and limpets along the strand, while the more robust of the women, under the direction of the old men, proceed to the construction of wigwams. Half a score of these are set up, long branches broken from the trees furnishing the rib-poles, which are roofed over with old seal-skins taken out of the canoes. In a wonderfully short time they are finished, almost as quickly as the pitching of a soldier's tent. When ready for occupation, fires are kindled in them, around which the wretched creatures crouch and shiver, regardless of smoke thick and bitter enough to drive a badger from its hole. It is this that makes them blear-eyed, and even uglier than Nature intended them to be. But the night is now near beginning, a chill, raw evening, with snow falling, and they can better bear smoke than cold. Nor are they any longer hungry. Their search for shell-fish and fungus has been rewarded with success, and they have eaten gluttonously of both.

Meanwhile, our friends the castaways have been left to themselves, for the time undisturbed, save by the dogs, which give them almost continuous trouble. The skulking curs, led by one of their kind, form a ring around the camp, deafening the ears of its occupants with their angry baying and barking. Strangely enough, as if sharing the antipathy of their owners, they seem specially hostile to "the doctor," more furiously demonstrating their antagonism to him than to any of the others. The poor fellow is kept constantly on the alert to save his shins from their sharp teeth.

Late in the evening, the old chief, whom the others call Annaqua ("the arrow") pays the camp a visit, professing great friendship, and again going through the patting and "chucking" process as before. But his professions ill correspond with his acts, as the aged sinner is actually detected stealing the knife of Seagriff himself, and from his person, too!—a feat of dexterity worthy the most accomplished master of legerdemain, the knife being adroitly abstracted from its sheath on the old sealer's hip during the exchange of salutations. Fortunately, the theft is discovered by young Chester, who is standing near by, and the thief caught in the very act. On the stolen article being taken from under the pilferer's shoulder-patch of seal-skin, where he had dexterously secreted it, he breaks out into a laugh, pretending to pass it off as a joke. In this sense the castaways are pleased to interpret it, or to make show of so interpreting it, for the sake of keeping on friendly terms with him. Indeed, but that the knife is a serviceable tool, almost essential to them, he would be permitted to retain it; and, by way of smoothing matters over, a brass button is given him instead, with which he goes on his way rejoicing.

"The old shark would steal the horns off a goat, ef they warn't well fixed in," is Seagriff's remark, as he stands looking after their departing visitor. "Howsoever, let's hope they may be content wi' stealin', and not take to downright robbery, or worse. We'll hev to keep watch all night, anyway, ez thar's no tellin' what they may be up to. They never sleep. They're perfect weasels."

And all night watch is kept, with a large fire ablaze, there being now no reason for letting it go out. Two of the party act as sentinels at a time, another pair taking their place. But indeed, throughout most of the night, all are wakeful, slumber being denied them by the barking of the dogs, and yelling of the savages, who, making good Seagriff's words, seem as though sleep were a luxury they had no wish to indulge in. And something seems to have made them merry, also. Out of their wigwams issue sounds of boisterous hilarity, as though they were celebrating some grand festival, with now and then a peal of laughter that might have proceeded from the lungs of a stentor. Disproportionate as is the great strength of a Fuegian to his little body, his voice is even more so; this is powerful beyond belief, and so loud as to be audible at almost incredible distances. Such a racket as these wild merry-makers within the wigwams are keeping up might well prevent the most weary of civilised mortals from even once closing his eyes in sleep. And the uproar lasts till daylight.

But what the cause of their merriment may be, or what it means, or how they can be merry at all under such circumstances, is to the castaways who listen anxiously to their hoarse clamour, a psychological puzzle defying explanation. Huddled together like pigs in a pen, and surely less comfortable in the midst of the choking smoke, contentment even would seem an utter impossibility. That there should exist such an emotion as joyfulness among them is a fact which greatly astonishes Ned Gancy and young Chester. Yet there can be no doubt that they are contented for the time, and even happy, if that word can ever be truly applied to creatures in a savage condition like theirs; and their loud merriment is, perhaps, a proof of Nature's universal beneficence, that will not permit the life of these lowest and, apparently, most wretched of human beings to be all misery! Far more miserable than they, that night—or, at least, far more burdened with the sense of misery—are those whom fate has cast into the power of these savage creatures, and who are obliged to listen to their howlings and hyena like laughter.