was crossing a submarine forest. Down there in the depths on this January day in the southern hemisphere some mysterious form of plant life was enjoying its leafy June. But science had no joys for him in that hour. Better the outlook on crag and clearing sky than [Pg 119]a furtive glimpse of the limbs and foliage of that monstrous growth. [Pg 119] All at once a cry from the look-out in the bows sent a quiver through every hearer. “Rock ahead!” After a pause, measured by seconds, but seeming like as many minutes, the same voice shouted: “Channel opens to starboard!” The ship answered the helm. She swept past a jagged little islet so closely that a sailor could have cast a coil of rope ashore. Forthwith another sound mingled with the crash of the breakers. The rock had been bored right through by the waves, and the gale set up a note in the tunnel such as no organ-builder ever dreamed of. That mighty chord pursued the Southern Cross for nearly half a mile. It was a melancholy and depressing wail. Maseden, whose faculties were supernaturally alert, noticed that the South American sailor’s face had turned a sickly green. The man was paralyzed with fright. His right hand fumbled in a weak attempt to cross himself. Out of the tail of his eye the second officer caught the gesture. “Pull yourself together, you swab!” he said bitingly. “What the hell good will you be if you give way like that?” [Pg 120] [Pg 120] The Spaniard grasped the sense of command in the words rather than their meaning. He was no coward. He even contrived to grin. It was a tonic to be cursed by an American, even though the pierced rock howled like a lost soul! Still the Southern Cross drove on. The tidal stream was, if anything, swifter than ever, but the size of the waves had diminished sensibly. The walls of the straits had closed in to within a half-mile span. There could not be the slightest doubt that the vessel was actually passing through one of the waterways which connect the Pacific with Smyth’s Channel. Maseden, after
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