How it had come to pass that a big ship of seven or eight hundred tons should have backed and neatly threaded an eye of cave, and fixed herself within, Greaves had, doubtless, correctly explained. The commander of her had stumbled upon this island in thick weather; or he may have found the island aboard of him on a sudden in a black night. He had a reason for bringing up in the shelter of that harbor, and when his anchors were down it came on to blow dead in-shore. The ship dragged. Her stern made a straight course for the opening in the cave. Would they seek to give her a sheer to divert her from that entry? No. For there might be safety in that cave, but outside it was certain destruction. To touch was to go to pieces against such a steep-to front of cliff as that. But many are the conundrums submitted by the ocean, and victoriously insoluble are they for the most part. You may theorize as you will. Nothing is certain but this: There was a ship! While I waited for the return of Greaves, I called to Bol to get a cast of the deep-sea lead. There was no bottom at eighty fathoms. I had expected from the appearance of the island to find a great depth of water to the very wash of the surf. No need, therefore, to bother with our ground tackle. And so much the better! Nothing like having your ship under control when the land is aboard. With an offing of a mile it would be easy to “ratch” clear any point of the island, even should it come on to blow with hurricane power; then it would be up-helm and a brief run for it, and a heave-to till the weather mended. The two Spanish sailors sat, Lascar fashion, against the caboose. They sucked alternately at a short pipe which one of them had probably borrowed. When the lead-line was coiled away, Yan Bol rolled up to me and said in his voice of thunder, but very civilly: “Dot vhas a scare.” “What was a scare?” said I. He leveled a massive forefinger at the two Spaniards. I nodded. “Der captain vhas some time gone,” said he. “I hope no man vhas before her.” “And that’s my hope.” “How many cases of dollars might der be, Mr. Fielding?” “I don’t know.” He looked as if he did not believe me, and said, “Vell, der more, der better for Mynheer Tulp und oders.” He paused upon this word, _oders_. I gazed at the island. “Der more der better, certainly,” continued he, “yet dey vhas not so plentiful but dot efery dollar might be shipped before dark. Tell me dey vhas plentiful some more dan dot, and, by Cott, Mr. Fielding, der crew’s share vhas as a flea upon der dog dot scratch her.” “My name is Fielding, not Greaves, Yan Bol,” said I. “Oh, yaw, dot vhas right. But I likes to tink aloud sometimes, Mr. Fielding.” “Are not you satisfied?” cried I, suddenly rounding upon him and looking him full in the face. “Perfectly satisfied, Mr. Fielding.”