We had been resting on our oars for a few minutes, Tertullian ceasing from his French and Latin, and maintaining a profound silence. 'Hearken!' said he, suddenly rising up, in an attitude of intense listening; 'it is the surf bursting upon the shore!' I put down my ear, and heard the hollow, heavy roar, and booming of the breakers, rolling upon the beach at Rockaway. 'We are near the mouth of the inlet,' said he; 'pull for the point of yonder island, or we shall be carried out to sea.' I remembered a story told me by Captain Phibious, of the small schooner Sally Jane, who got carried out into the Gulf Stream, four or five hundred miles, without provisions, in which expedition all hands liked to have perished. Fear lent strength and vigor to our arms. Into what peril were we brought through the remissness of those irredeemable negroes Sam and Jim! With such good effect did we pull at the oars, that in a little while we struck the point of land, and leaped upon the shore in safety. 'Do you know where you are!' exclaimed Tertullian. 'Certainly not, except upon a desert strip of sand.' 'You are on Scollop Island.' My blood froze in my veins. 'We are then,' said I, 'upon the dominions of Floys Boyo, and within the precincts of the DEVIL-TAVERN.' 'The same,' answered he; 'let us draw up the boat.' Scollop Island, whither we had now come, was a small, barren place, which lies just at the mouth of the inlet, opposite to the Rockaway beach. It consists of little hillocks of white sand, and intervening valleys, with here and there a few groves of pines, and gnarled oaks, whortleberry-bushes, and brambles, or whatever will grow on so unpropitious a site. Beside these, there is at any time little sign of life. Only one house or tenement was visible upon its highest point, before which the broken mast of some wrecked schooner was planted in the sand; and half way up jutted out a sign, on which was painted some figure, not intended to be human. Some beaks, figure-heads, and gilded ornaments, the relics of unfortunate ships, lay about, or were nailed over the doors. The house, it must be confessed, had never borne an excellent reputation. Gibbs and Wamsley had resorted to it frequently, and are said to have made some deposits of treasure in the sands of the island which have never yet been turned up. The boatmen who tarry there usually do so, for the purpose of some drunken spree too riotous and noisy for the main land. But the Devil-Tavern had at least one merit, for it discarded all semblance of hypocrisy, and did not even assume to itself the vestige of a good name. It may be said that the present one was forced upon it; at any rate it had borne it a long time, and put forth no protest to vindicate the reputation of the house. The virtuous were afraid of it, and preferred, if carried thither in some summer excursion, to wander about the hot beach, rather than seek the comparative coolness of its walls.