It must have been close on two o'clock when we reached the base of the Gribben day-mark, around which were gathered about two hundred persons--fishermen, coastguards, and civilians--all of whom were looking intently seaward towards the Cannis, a half-submerged rock lying a quarter of a mile from shore. There was nothing to be seen, for the darkness was too intense, while the signals of distress had long since been discontinued--the absence of which gave rise to the most despondent conjectures. "'Tain't no good waitin' 'ere," grumbled one of the onlookers, a pensioned coastguardsman. "She's broke up hours ago." "Supposin' some of they chaps comes ashore?" "What can us do for the likes o' they?" replied the first speaker contemptuously. "Why, with this tide a-makin' to the west'ard, they'll all be corpses long afore they reaches shore. Even if they don't, there's the rocks----" and with a shrug of the shoulders that conveyed a significant meaning, the sentence remained unfinished. Slowly the day dawned, but the fury of the gale did not abate, although the wind shifted more to the south-west. The old coastguardsman was right: the ship had "broke up," and not a vestige remained. "What time be 'igh water?" asked one of the men. "A quarter to five, George," replied another. "See, the lifeboats are off 'ome." "Do you happen to know the name of the vessel?" asked my father. "No, sir, we don't; and what's more, we can't make out 'ow she got in there, unless it was she couldn't make out the leadin' lights." "I think we may as well make for home, Reggie," said my father. "There's nothing to be seen, and no good to be done." We descended the headland, and reached the sea-level at Pridmouth beach, where the waves were tumbling in heavily, though, owing to the shift of wind, with not so much violence. Under the shelter of a friendly rock, we rested for nearly half an hour, making a sorry meal from the biscuits my father had been thoughtful enough to remind me to bring. On resuming our way we had just passed the cottages near the grotto, and were about to take the steep path leading to the top of the cliffs on the other side of the little bay, when, a well-known voice shouted-- "Wait a bit, Howard!" We both turned round, and, to our intense astonishment, within five yards of us stood my Uncle Herbert. Coatless, hatless, and clad only in a pair of trousers that were much too small for him, a grey shirt, and a pair of canvas shoes, he looked like a regular tramp, while a strip of linen bound round his forehead half concealed his features. Yet it was Uncle Herbert, sure enough, and we stood still in speechless surprise. "Is that all you have to say to a fellow?" he exclaimed, wringing my father's hand. "However, in the name of all that's wonderful, did you get here?" asked my father. "Come ashore from the wreck, of course," he replied, speaking as if it were an everyday occurrence.