Dawn--a gray, eerie dawn--was creeping ghostly over the iron-bound shore, when the fragments of wreckage began to drift in. Such are the currents upon those coasts that bodies are rarely recovered from wrecks on the cruel Pinion Rocks. In the dim light I bent over a battered and torn mass of timber--that once had been the bow of a boat; and in letters of black and gold I read: "S. Y. _Chanak-Kampo."_