We were presently joined by Ferratoni—spiritually pale, but triumphant. I was not sorry, for I could not help caring for the man, and it seemed to me that after all his devotion to Edith Gale might be rather a tribute to an ideal than a genuine passion of the heart. We ascended to the bridge where we found the First Officer on watch. His name was Larkins—Terence Larkins—a sturdy Newfoundlander of forty, whose life ashore had been limited to childhood only—a period now lost in the cloudland of myth and fable. He had no prejudices concerning our destination. He was ready at any moment to go anywhere that the sea touched, and to maintain a pleasant discourse at any stage of the journey. He was big and blond, with a touch of ancestry in his speech and a proper disregard of facts—a merry Munchausen of the sea. He saluted as we approached, and pointed shoreward. “Farrmers’ day ashore,” he said, with a serious air. “All the farrmers come to the beach to-day for their annual shwim.” “Is this the day?” I asked, looking where he pointed. “I’ve heard of it, but I had forgotten the date.” “Sure it is, man; an’ can’t ye see thim over there, dhriving down to the beach with their teams? An’ thim fellies puttin’ up the limonade shtands, an’ merry-go-rounds fer the farrmer lads an’ their shweetheartses?” I reached for the glass and took a long look. The solid purple wall was as solid and purple as it had been before. “No, really, Mr. Larkins,” I admitted, “I do not.” “Let _me_ look, Larkins,” said Gale. He leveled the glass and began to testify. “Why, of course! And there’s a new addition laid out just below, and a little sign stuck up with—let me see—M-A-R-S-H-S-I-D-E on it. Well, that’s a funny name for an addition, ‘Marshside!’” Edith Gale seized the glass. After a hasty glance she declared: “Of course Mr. Chase couldn’t see anything! And you and Mr. Larkins didn’t, either.” Ferratoni who had been gazing through another glass also shook his head. Chauncey Gale and Mr. Larkins joined in a hearty laugh at our expense. “Oh, now,” consoled the latter, “it’s because yer eyes are not thrained to lookin’ over the sea. By the time ye get back from the South Pole they’ll be opened to a great many things.” There came the summons to breakfast and we went below—certainly with no reluctance on my part, this time.