One day when the beach seemed much better than usual, the captain and the ship’s surgeon ventured ashore. The purpose of the captain was probably to visit the shippers with the object of drumming up trade, as captains are obliged to do on the coast. For this purpose he makes a very friendly call on each trader, listens to his graphaphone, and even praises it. He was brave to risk the surf, but he took the doctor. The captain afterwards narrated the adventure of their landing to a small but enthusiastic audience. He said that after waiting outside the surf half an hour, the headman suddenly gave the order, and in a moment they were in the breakers, riding on the top of one of them, and speeding towards the shore at the rate of “seventy miles an hour,” which calculation was merely his sensation expressed in terms of linear measure. The captain was in the bow of the boat well braced and cushioned. But when the boat struck the beach with the force of a railway collision, the doctor was thrown violently over two thwarts into the captain’s bosom, whom he clasped about the neck with a steel-like grip. The next moment another breaker picked the boat up and hurled it upon the beach, throwing both captain and doctor to a perfectly safe distance where they sprawled upon the sand. The doctor, still hugging the captain’s neck, and very much frightened, exclaimed: “O Captain, dear Captain, is there anybody killed but you and me?” But now it is evening, at the close of a bad day. No white man has ventured ashore these ten days. But the Kruboys have gone, and there on the beach is a boat making a last attempt to come off. The sea has been getting worse all day, and it is now like a boiling caldron. They have been there for hours, and have tried again and again to get off, but have failed, though they have no cargo, and they are the best crew and have the best headman of all. Several times they have been thrown back on the beach, and once the boat was capsized when nearly through the breakers; now they are making a last effort.