He had his automatic, but he was doubtful whether it would be serviceable. The cartridge in the barrel might be effective, since the ammunition was guaranteed damp-proof; but there was the chance of the delicate mechanism of the weapon being deranged by its submersion. Nor was an automatic of much use against a cayman. The bullet was not powerful enough to penetrate the creature's armour-plated body; and unless a lucky hit were made in the cayman's eye or throat, the odds would be against Peter. All the same, the possession of the automatic gave him a certain degree of confidence that would have been lacking had he been weaponless. He had traversed about twenty yards when he encountered a dark object that well-nigh capsized him. Visions of an electric eel flashed across his mind. For a moment he floundered panic-stricken, striving to break away from the object that was clinging tenaciously to one foot. Then the real nature of the thing became apparent. It was the sleeping-bag that Uncle Brian was preparing as a sea-anchor when the boat sank. Disengaging the short oar from the bag and using it as a sounding-pole, Peter resumed his semi-aquatic walk. If anything, the water was shoaling. Once or twice it was almost up to his shoulders, but mostly it was only knee-deep and the bottom level. For another thirty yards he progressed, and then looming through the darkness he could discern the irregular outlines of a rocky coast at a distance of about fifty yards. That was good enough. Retracing his steps, a feat only rendered possible by the aid of the rope, Peter communicated the result of his discoveries to Uncle Brian. During the last half-hour the wind had veered, with the result that the waves had died down completely--another indication that the lee shore had obligingly become a weather one. "How about our gear?" inquired Uncle Brian. "What has floated is most likely ashore by this time," replied Peter. "The heavy stuff can stop in the boat till daybreak. We'll make fast the rope and take the other end with us. That will help us to find the boat later on." This suggestion was acted upon, but when Uncle Brian stepped out of the boat to join Peter in their walk to the land, the bows, relieved of his weight, appeared above the surface. "I say!" exclaimed Peter. "She's almost waterborne. It's only the weight of the engine that's keeping her stern down. We can drag her with us." Each man grasped one gunwale. The "orange-box"--that, but for the shallowness of the water, might have been a coffin--was moved shorewards with comparative ease, until the gunwales were awash and the bottom aground. Exerting all their strength, the two men found it impossible to move her another foot. "We're here, anyway," declared Uncle Brian, regarding the rocky shore with feelings of thankfulness. "We are," agreed Peter grimly. "And marooned on an island most likely," added his relative. "S'pose there's nothing for it but to wait till day."