“If I ever was more glad to get on land alive than I am at present,” said Henry Burns, his teeth chattering with the cold, as he hastily scrambled into his clothes, “I don’t happen to remember it just at this instant. I wonder if my aunt would send me down here again for my health if she could see me now.” There was something so ludicrous in the idea that the boys could not help bursting into roars of laughter,—though they felt little enough like merriment. “The more I think of it,” said Henry Burns, “the more I believe the boys are snug ashore at Millville, and that they haven’t been within ten miles of Grand Island to-night.” “I think you are right, Henry,” responded Arthur. “It must be so,” said George. And yet not one of them dared to believe absolutely that what he said was true. They started off across lots now, walking as rapidly as their wet and heavy clothing would allow, to strike the road which led to the harbour. Coming at length into this road, they had walked but a short distance, and were at the top of a hill at a turn of the road where it left the shore, when Henry Burns, pointing down along the shore, said: “We ought to remember that part of the bay as long as we live, for we shall never be much nearer to death than we were right there.” “Sure enough,” responded Arthur, “it was just about off there that the big yawl smashed our bowsprit off.” “The yawl must have been driven ashore by this time,” said George. “Wait a minute and I will take a look.” And he disappeared over the bank and was lost in the bushes. The two boys seated themselves by the side of the road to await his return, but started up with a horror in their hearts as a shrill cry came up to them from the shore. There was that in the cry that told them that George Warren had found other than the ship’s long-boat. They scarcely dared to think what. Then they, too, dashed down the slope to the shore. When they reached his side, George Warren could scarcely speak from emotion. “Look! Look!” he cried, in a trembling, choking voice, and pointed out upon the beach where the tide had gone down. There were two strange objects there that the sea had buffeted in its wild play that night, and then, as though grown tired of them, had cast upon the shore, among the rocks and seaweed. One was the long-boat, no longer an object of danger, for the sea had hurled it against a rock and stove its side in. The other was a canoe. The sea had overturned it and tossed it upon the shore. Two of its thwarts were smashed where it had been dropped down and pinioned upon a rock—and the rock held it fast. CHAPTER III. A SURPRISE