What became of her new Captain and crew we never heard. We knew only that the “Josefa Jacinta” was lost, and that we could never sail her again, except on dream caños in a phantom wilderness. PART II OUR SECOND SEARCH BRITISH GUIANA [Illustration: FIG. 56. MAP OF OUR THREE EXPEDITIONS INTO BRITISH GUIANA.] CHAPTER IV. GEORGETOWN. Another year has slipped past and again we are southward bound, toward that Mecca—the tropics—which never ceases to call us. The time is the fifteenth of February, 1909; the place, the Royal Dutch Mail Steamship “Coppename.” Nine days out from New York at three o’clock in the morning we are roused suddenly from sleep by a gentle roaring in our ears. When we have gained partial consciousness we realize it is the basso-profundo whisper of good Captain Haasnoot summoning us to the bridge. We ask no questions for we have learned that the voice of the genial Dutchman means something worth while, whether it is raised in a thunderous roar of “_Hofmeister!_” or as now in gentler accents. Wrapped in flapping blankets, we climb the steep ladder to the bridge, there to enjoy for half an hour a most wonderful display of phosphorescence—even excelling that often visible in the Bay of Fundy. The Captain in all his world-wide sea-faring has never seen anything to equal it. We are only a short distance off the shore of British Guiana and the ocean is thick with sediment from the rivers. The sky is overcast and no light comes from the moon and stars, and yet the whole sea is plainly visible. The horizon glows with a dull, yellow flare against the jet black sky, and the myriad foam-caps shimmer as with brighter flames. The quenching of these in the opaque water gives a vivid impression of an enormous conflagration half hidden behind billows of smoke. At day-break Georgetown is in sight—a low, flat line of wharfs, with a background of galvanized tin roofs and tall bending palm trees. Never was a fairyland set in so prosaic a frame! With what mingled feelings our little ship’s family lean on the rail and scan the shore! To some the thought comes of the miracles of yellow gold and precious stones hidden deep beneath the primitive forests; to other sea-weary travellers the stability of the shore appeals most; while we two watch for the first hint of bird life. Our desire is gratified before that of any of the others, for over the water there comes the first morning call of the great yellow Tyrant[101]—_Kis-ka-dee!_ bringing a hundred memories of the tropics. As we steam slowly up to the wharf a small flock of Gray-breasted Martins[122] twitters above our heads, a Black Vulture[51] swings over the tin roofs, the jubilant song of a Guiana House Wren[124] reaches our ear, and our Second Search has begun.