The islet, or rock, for it was little more, which the explorers had reached, was low and extremely barren. Nevertheless it had on it a large colony of sea-fowl, which received the strangers with their wonted clamour of indignation—if not of welcome.

 

As it was near noon at the time, the Captain and Leo went with their sextants to the highest part of the island to ascertain its position; the Eskimos set about making an encampment, unloading the boats, etcetera, and Alf, with hammer and botanical box, set off on a short ramble along the coast, accompanied by Benjy and Butterface.

 

Sometimes these three kept together and chatted, at other times they separated a little, each attracted by some object of interest, or following the lead, it might have been, of wayward fancy. But they never lost sight of each other, and, after a couple of hours, converged, as if by tacit consent, until they met and sat down to rest on a ledge of rock.

 

“Well, I do like this sort o’ thing,” remarked Benjy, as he wiped his heated brow. “There is something to me so pleasant and peaceful about a low rocky shore with the sun blazing overhead and the great sea stretching out flat and white in a dead calm with just ripple enough to let you know it is all alive and hearty—only resting, like a good-humoured and sleepy giant.”

 

“Why, Ben, I declare you are becoming poetical,” said Alf with a smile; “your conceptions correspond with those of Buzzby, who writes:—

 

    “‘Great Ocean, slumb’ring in majestic calm,

 

    Lies like a mighty—a mighty—’

 

“I—I fear I’ve forgotten. Let me see:—

 

    “‘Great Ocean, slumb’ring in majestic calm,

 

    Lies like a mighty—’”

 

“Giant in a dwalm,” suggested Benjy.

 

“We’ll change the subject,” said Alf, opening his botanical box and taking out several specimens of plants and rocks. “See, here are some bits of rock of a kind that are quite new to me.”

 

“What’s de use ob dem?” inquired Butterface with a look of earnest simplicity.

 

“The use?” said Benjy, taking on himself to reply; “why, you flat-nosed grampus, don’t you know that these bits of rock are made for the express purpose of being carried home, identified, classified, labelled, stuck up in a museum, and stared at by wondering ignoramuses, who care nothing whatever about them, and know less. Geologists are constantly going about the world with their little hammers keeping up the supply.”

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