It happened one evening that as I stood on the verandah, telescope in hand, dividing my attention between the cloudlike mountain and the fleet of canoes returning homewards from the market, Pereira came out, and flinging himself into a squeaking Madeira chair, began to roll a cigarette, regarding me meanwhile with an indulgent smile. “I often wonder, Englefield,” he said presently, “what it is that you are continually spying at through that telescope. Surely the lagoon and the canoes and the palms and the pelicans are pretty commonplace objects by this time, and I think they comprise the entire landscape.” “Certainly,” I replied, “the outlook is a little monotonous; but yet somehow it attracts me, and I find myself continually wondering what there is behind the horizon there.” “Then wonder no longer, my friend,” said Pereira, “but come with me to-morrow and see for yourself. I have to go to Anyáko to visit a branch store that I have there, and as to-morrow is Sunday I propose that we make my business visit into a picnic. But don’t imagine that there is anything to see. Conceive Quittáh with pink clay instead of grey sand, with ant hills in place of sand dunes; add to the cocoa-nut palms a few gum trees and baobabs, and substitute a slightly different stink, and there is Anyáko.” “Any white people?” I inquired. “Not now,” answered Pereira. “There was a mission station there once, but the missionaries died off as fast as they were sent out, so the station was abandoned. You’ll see the graves and the remains of the chapel to-morrow.” On the following morning I met Pereira by the lagoon-side just as the sun was rising, but early as was the hour, all the necessary preparations for the journey were completed. Half a dozen of the long flat-bottomed canoes (each fashioned from a single log of silk-cotton-wood) such as the natives use, were drawn up by the “hard” or landing-place, and of these the largest was evidently set apart for our use, for it contained two Madeira chairs, and even as I approached I observed Aochi, Pereira’s servant, stowing in the bows a green gin case from which protruded the necks of two claret bottles. The lagoon at this hour was perfectly still, with a dull, unruffled surface like a sheet of polished lead, and was overhung by a shroud of yellowish rosy mist. A quite unusual silence brooded over the scene--for ordinarily Quittáh with the strong sea breeze, the chattering cocoa-nut palms and the boisterous natives, is rather a noisy place--through which the giant pulse of the ocean could be heard booming rhythmically upon the beach.