The shadows were lengthening as the "Otters" and the "Wolves" breasted the last hill. The lads had relapsed into comparative silence. The strangeness of their surroundings so filled them with keen joy that they could only march in subdued quietness and feast their eyes on the natural beauties of the country. Suddenly Fred Simpson, who headed the march, stopped, and, raising his stetson on the end of his staff, gave a mighty shout. His example was followed by the others as they gained the summit of the hilly road. Almost beneath his feet, and extending as far as the eye could see, was the sea, bathed in all the reflected glory of the setting sun. Not one of the Scouts had previously seen the sun set in the sea: their knowledge of the seaside was confined to the Kentish and Essex coast towns where the orb of day appears to sink to rest behind the inland hills. On either hand dark red cliffs cut the skyline, forming the extremities of Polkerwyck Bay. The headlands, fantastic in shape, reared themselves boldly to a height of nearly three hundred feet. On the easternmost point, appropriately named Beware Head, stood a tall granite lighthouse, the stonework painted in red and black bands. On the western headland--Refuge Point--stood the white-washed houses of the coastguard station. Between the headlands was Polkerwyck Bay, the village giving it its name nestling on either side of a small tidal estuary, and enclosed by a gorge so narrow and so deep that the Scouts imagined that they could throw a pebble from the road upon the stone roofs of the picturesque cottages. Of the estuary, and separated from the land by a stretch of deep blue water, lay what appeared to be a small rock. "Where's Seal Island, sir?" asked Atherton, who was the first to find his tongue. "There," replied the Scoutmaster, pointing to the rock. "Why, it's ever so small," cried several of the Scouts in a chorus. "Large enough for us, lads," replied Mr Trematon with a hearty laugh. "Objects look deceptive when viewed from a height. Now, then, fall in! Sayers, Scott, Pat Coventry and Armstrong, follow the trek-cart with the drag ropes. You will want to keep it well in check going down the hill. Patrols--quick march!" Down the zig-zag hill the Scouts made their way; at every step Seal Island seemed to get larger and larger, till at length the lads halted in the main and only street of Polkerwyck, where they were surrounded by all the available population: men, women and children to the number of about eighty. "Welcome back to Polkerwyck, Mr Trematon, zur," exclaimed a hale, grey-headed fisherman, picturesquely attired in sou'wester (although the day was hot), blue jersey, tanned canvas trousers, and heavy sea-boots. "Thanks, Peter Varco," replied the Scoutmaster, heartily shaking the old man's hand. "I am glad to see you again. You look just the same."