The Deep Sea Hunters: Adventures on a Whaler

Apparently Father Neptune was anxious to show his appreciation of the welcome he had received on the Hector, for the day after his appearance, a light breeze sprang up. Taking advantage of every catspaw, under a perfect cloud of canvas and with stunsails set, the bark slipped through the calm sea and out of the doldrums into the southern trade winds. Then, once more, she bowled along on her long run to Tristan da Cunha, her next stop. Although the boys had left New Bedford in the autumn, they now found that it was spring south of the equator and the captain explained to them that he hoped to reach the South Shetlands in time to fill up with oil during the short Antarctic summer, and leave for the north before winter set in.

The days passed by uneventfully, but ever with something new or unusual to interest the two boys. Daily they saw strange birds; long-tailed white “bo’sun” birds, boobies and “Mother Carey’s chickens” and many another. Cap’n Pem told them that the “bo’suns” were unlucky and if one alighted on the ship it meant a death aboard, but that the Mother Carey’s chickens were good omens.

“Stormy petrels, some calls ’em,” said the old whaleman. “Ye can’t git a sailor ter hurt ’em fer love o’ money, but I reckon ef ye’d like ter see one of ’em clost to, ’twon’t do no harm fer me ter ketch some o’ the chicks an’ let ’em go again.”

“Catch them!” exclaimed Tom. “How can you catch one of those birds?”

“Easy as is,” replied Pem. “Jes’ run down an’ fetch me up a reel o’ black thread an’ a couple o’ ol’ corks an I’ll show ye.”

Tying each cork to a piece of thread, the old whaleman cast them over the stern and let out about a hundred feet of thread to each of the corks dancing in the bark’s wake where the petrels were flitting constantly back and forth. Scarcely had he done so, before one of the birds became entangled in a thread and, at its shrill cries of alarm, its comrades hurried towards it and in a moment several of the birds were hopelessly entangled. Rapidly pulling in the threads, the old man placed the frightened but unhurt birds upon the deck.

“There ye be,” he chuckled as he disengaged the thread from their wings and legs. “New kind o’ fishin’, eh?”

“It’s the funniest way of catching birds I ever saw,” declared Tom. “Oh, look out! They’ll get away!”

“Don’ worry ’bout that,” laughed Cap’n Pem. “The chicks can’t fly offen a level deck, ’ceptin’ they get a start by rollin’. Legs is too weak ter hol’ ’em up.”

Much to the boys’ surprise, they found that this was a fact, and that the petrels were practically helpless on the deck until the ship lurched or rolled and gave them an opportunity to rise. The birds seemed very tame and unsuspicious and greedily snapped up and devoured bits of food offered them. After playing with them for a time, the boys tossed them into the air and, an instant later, they were flitting back and forth with their fellows as if nothing had happened.

The next day, the boys were preparing to take their observations when an exclamation from the helmsman caused them to look up just in time to see one of the long-tailed “bo’sun birds” fluttering about the mizzen crosstrees as if about to alight.

“Eet mean some one he die!” exclaimed the Portuguese at the wheel. Taking one hand from the wheel he hastily crossed himself.

“Shet up, you!” exploded Cap’n Pem, and then, anxiously, “Mebbe ’twon’t light. Bad luck if he does, dern him!”

By now, every one on the ship was watching the hovering bird; the greenies, curiously; the seamen, with fear expressed on their faces, while even Captain Edwards looked more troubled and serious than the boys had ever before seen him.

The eyes of the big negro sailor rolled wildly; the pop-eyed boy’s eyes seemed about to burst from his head; the Irishman, Mike, was nervously hitching up his trousers and frowning at the beautiful bird and the Swedish carpenter was holding his crossed fingers in air as if invoking a charm. Not a word was spoken as every eye was fixed upon the innocent creature seeking a spot to rest and when, an instant later, it settled gently upon a ratline and commenced to preen its snowy feathers, a great sigh rose in unison from a score of hairy throats.

“Bad luck for us!” ejaculated Cap’n Pem decisively. “Never knowed it to fail!”

“Mebbe nothin’ more’n bad weather,” commented Mr. Kemp optimistically.

Captain Edwards shook his head and said nothing, while, on deck, the crew conversed in hushed but earnest tones and glanced apprehensively at the resting bird. Then, as the boys resumed their interrupted observations and the eight strokes of the bell pealed out, the bird lifted its white wings, soared from its perch and was soon out of sight.

“Wusser an’ wusser!” prophesied Cap’n Pem lugubriously. “Bet ye we don’t get no ’ile or a man goes overboard or suthin’ serious happens. Lef’ at eight bells too—that’s the time it’s goin’ ter happen! Reckon I oughn’t a cotched them chicks yisterday!”

“Oh, come, Cap’n Pem!” laughed Tom. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

The old whaleman looked at him a moment frowning.

“’Course I does!” he snorted. “Ask Mike or any o’ the crew!” Still muttering he stumped off. In a few hours, however, the incident seemed to have been forgotten and no one mentioned it again.

A few days later, the boys saw a school of huge black and white creatures with enormous fins upon their backs which they thought were some sort of whale.

“Killers,” said Mr. Kemp, when the boys pointed them out. “Kind of a po’poise, or grampus or whale, I dunno which, and jes’ about the all-firedest savage critters there is. I’ve seed ’em tackle a bull whale an’ tear him all to bits right afore my eyes. That’s why we call ’em killers,—’cause they kill an’ eat whales.”

But despite a sharp lookout that was maintained, no whales were sighted and the bark kept steadily on her course. Then, one day, the boys saw an enormous white bird sailing towards them close to the surface of the sea. It was the first albatross, and with fascinated eyes the boys watched it, as with motionless wings, fully ten feet from tip to tip, the beautiful creature sailed along in the bark’s wake, skimming the crests of the waves, swinging to right and left, dipping down to pick up some bit of offal thrown overboard; now rising until it was a mere speck in the sky, anon speeding ahead of the rushing ship as easily as though she were standing still and then dropping astern again to take up its wonted place. Every morning the bird was there. Long after darkness fell, the boys could see its ghostly white form against the heaving, black sea, and they wondered if it slept on the wing or ever slept at all. Then another appeared, and another and another, until a score or more of the wonderful creatures were constantly in sight. And then, at last, a dim, hazy-blue shape loomed like a cloud upon the horizon above the heaving sea and the boys looked upon the strange, unfrequented islands of Tristan da Cunha.

Rapidly the islands took form and shape as, under her press of canvas, the bark drove onward. Up from the restless waves rose three vast pyramids, their summits hidden in low-hung, threatening clouds, while below, stretched gray-green slopes and rugged hills, cut with black gorges and ravines and fringed with beating, high-flung surf.

“My, but that’s a wild-looking place!” exclaimed Tom. “Is there a town there, Captain Edwards?”

“No real town,” replied the skipper, “but a number of people, about one hundred and fifty, I suppose, and mighty nice folk, too. It’s a remarkable island, boys, and the most remarkable thing about it are its inhabitants. They are mostly descendants of British soldiers who were stationed on the island when Napoleon was a captive on St. Helena. Tristan’s just about half way ’twixt St. Helena and South America and the Britishers were a bit afraid some one might try to rescue Napoleon, so they placed a garrison over here on Tristan. You may think it’s a mighty poor-looking spot, but the Tommies grew so fond of it, they wouldn’t leave and settled down and their descendants have been here ever since. Funny thing, too, mighty few of ’em ever leave to live anywhere else and if they do go off to see the rest of the world they always come back. But a good part of ’em are whalemen’s families. Seems to be something about the place that makes folks fall in love with it, and ever since Yankee whaleships have been comin’ here, whalemen have been desertin’ and joining the colony.”

“But what do they do for a living?” asked Jim. “I should think it would be just the loneliest place in the world. Do they have a king or a president, or what?”

“They raise cattle and garden truck mostly,” replied Captain Edwards. “That’s why we whalemen stop here—to get fresh vegetables and eggs and beef. The land’s fertile and the climate ain’t bad and they raise about the best potaters and vegetables I ever saw. No, they don’t have any king or president or any sort of government,—just get along neighborly and nice with elders to guide ’em and seem to do a heap better and be a lot happier than any republic or kingdom you’ll find. And they ain’t a mite wild or uncivilized or uneducated either,—have churches and schools and everything, even if the only folks they ever see are whalemen and a British cruiser or ship that calls once a year with mail and supplies. Whenever she comes in, the folks have all their letters and orders ready and send them off and a year later they get the goods and the answers. Wonder how folks in the States would get on if they could only go shopping once a year and had to wait another year to get the things!”

“Gee, that’s a high mountain!” exclaimed Tom. “Will we have time to go ashore, Captain?”

“Plenty o’ time,” the skipper assured him. “We’ll be here a couple of days—have to give the folks time to get the supplies together and down to the shore, and you can go all over the place in that time if you’re as much like goats as the boys here are. Yes, pretty good-sized mountain, that—over 8,000 feet high and an old volcano.”

By the time the captain had finished speaking, the island loomed close ahead and the boys could see tiny houses and buildings scattered about on the sloping hillsides. The coast seemed forbidding and barren with heavy surf breaking everywhere; but as they drew nearer, a covelike harbor appeared, and cautiously feeling his way in, and constantly scanning landmarks on the shore, Captain Edwards piloted the bark towards the island until the sky-piercing cone of the volcano appeared to overhang the Hector’s masts.

At braces and halliards stood the crew, ready for instant action when the order was given to swing the yards. In the bows stood the second mate and his men ready to let the anchor go, and, to the boys, it seemed as if the bark would pile herself upon the rocks before the captain’s voice roared out the orders, the yards swung to the crash of slatting sails and the creak of tackle; the roar of chain and the splash of anchor were flung back in thundering echoes from the cliffs, and the Hector swung motionless before the out-of-the-world island.

Long before the bark had come to anchor, boats were putting off from shore, and in a few moments, a miniature flotilla surrounded the Hector. Much to the boys’ surprise,—for somehow, despite what the captain had told them, they had expected to see roughly clad, unkempt, swarthy people—the men who were in the boats were fine-looking, rosy-cheeked, bronzed-skinned young giants, neatly clad in blue dungaree or serge and differing in no way from men who might be seen at any seaport in New England.

Laughing and talking, they clambered up the bark’s sides and came aboard, greeting Captain Edwards and others by name, shaking hands with every one and speaking with a peculiar accent that seemed to be a cross between cockney English and down-east Yankee,—impossible to describe.

All were very friendly and plied the skipper and every one else with questions about the war, about affairs in the States, about the cruise of the Hector and a thousand and one other things. Captain Edwards produced a huge bundle of papers and magazines and a packet of letters for them, and presently a sturdy, tow-headed youth approached the boys.

“My name’s Paul Potter and this is my brother, Getty,” he announced, as a younger, freckled-faced boy joined them. “You’re the first American boys I’ve seen in four years.”

“My name’s Tom Chester and this is Jim Lathrop,” said. Tom. “We’re from Fair Haven. Are you any relation to Cap’n Pem? His name’s Potter, too.”

“Shouldn’t be a bit surprised,” replied Paul, “Gran’ther was a New Bedford whaleman and there are lots of Potters here.”

“Yep, an’ plenty o’ Chesters and Lathrops, too,” put in Getty. “Say, tell us all about the war an’ what’s goin’ on. We be’nt heard nary word for nigh a year.”

“Has America gone into it?” added Paul. “Last we heard was when our ships licked the Germans over t’ Falklands. One of them called in here to parse the news.”

Willingly, Tom and Jim related all the most important news of the war which had taken place since the islanders had last heard from the outside world, and the four boys were soon fast friends. Then the Potter boys asked about the cruise and the trip down.

“Wisht us might go ’long,” declared Getty. “I’d like for to see a whale killed, wouldn’t you, Paul?”

“Rather!” agreed his brother. “And I’d jolly well like to go to the South Shetlands ’long of you boys. We’ve ne’er been offen Tristan, you know.”

“Dad’s been there,” Getty reminded him. “Mind when he told us ’bout yon elephants?”

“Aye, Dad’s been most all places,” assented Paul. “Went to New York onct and Lunnon, too. He’s school marster now.”

At this moment Cap’n Pem approached. “Ready to stretch legs ashore?” he inquired. “See ye’ve found chums a’ready. Reckon ye didn’t fin’ ’em savages, did ye?”

“Not a bit,” laughed Tom. “They’re named after you, Cap’n Pem. This is Paul and Getty Potter.”

“Well I’ll be squeejiggled!” exclaimed the old man. “Glad ter know ye, lads. What’s yer dad’s name?”

“Henry Potter,” replied Paul. “He says he’s American, ’cause gran’ther was a New Bedford whaleman.”

“I’ll be derned!” cried Cap’n Pem. “What’s his name,—’tain’t ol’ Lem Potter o’ the Greyhoun’, is it?”

“Aye, sir, ’tis so,” Paul assured him.

“Well, I’ll be holy-stoned an’ everlastin’ly keelhauled!” shouted the whaleman, “ef ye ain’t my own fambly! Why, bless yer hearts, I ain’t been here in nigh thirty years an’ las’ time I touched ’twas in the ol’ Leonidas an’ Lem’s kid wasn’t knee high to a grasshopper. Kain’t b’lieve he’s growed up an’ got kids like you! Lem’s my secon’ cousin ye know. Got los’ from the Greyhoun’ an’ made Tristan an’ jes’ settled down an’ married one o’ the lassies here. Come ’long all o’ ye. I jes’ gotter git ashore an’ go a-gammin’, boys.”

“I wondered if you weren’t relations to Cap’n Pem,” chuckled Tom as the four boys and the old man made their way to where Paul’s boat was moored.

“And I expect we’ll find members of our families there, too,” added Jim. “Say, this is a regular little New Bedford, isn’t it?”

But while the boys found plenty of Chesters and Lathrops, as their new friends had stated, they were all old English families, and the two boys were rather disappointed that they could not boast of having relatives on the queer, mid-ocean island.

They found the place very interesting, with its winding, crooked paths, and houses built of beach pebbles like the fishermen’s cottages in England, and they were tremendously surprised at the variety and luxuriance of the vegetables growing in tiny, irregular gardens sheltered among the huge volcanic boulders. Reaching the Potter residence, the four left Cap’n Pem chatting and gossiping with his white-headed cousin, Lem, and with Paul and his brother, climbed up the steep hillside.

Far up on the mountain slope the boys threw themselves upon a little patch of soft, gray moss and gazed down at the panorama of the island far below, with the Hector, looking like a toy ship against the deep green water, and the cottages so much like piles of brown rocks that they appeared mere portions of the landscape. Already, the people were busy gathering the vegetables and cattle for the bark and the boys could hear their shouts and could see them hurrying about like busy ants.

“What do you do to amuse yourselves?” asked Tom, at last.

“Us have plenty to do,” Paul replied. “There’s the gardens to be planted an’ cared for an’ the cattle an’ fishin’ an’ gathering kelp, and betimes we egg or hunt.”

“What do you gather kelp for?” asked Jim.

“And what do you hunt and egg?” inquired Tom.

“Kelp’s for to fert’lize the gardens,” explained Paul. “Grows big here, twenty fathom long sometimes, an’ after storms it looses up and gets adrift an’ us gathers it an’ rots it for the land. Goats is what we hunt, plenty o’ wild ones here, an’ betimes we go sealing an’ fishing. I like egging best. It’s more exciting.”

“How do you go egging?” asked Jim.

“Us goes down the cliffs on a line,” replied Paul. “It’s too early season now or we’d show you.”

“No ’tain’t,” contradicted Getty. “Plenty gulls has eggs to To’gallant Rock. Let’s go.”

“Want to?” asked Paul.

“We’d love to,” replied Tom. “Come on.”

Hurrying down the mountain side, Paul ran home and met the others with a long rope and a basket in his hands while Getty led the way around a corner of the hill and along a faintly marked pathway.

Presently, they reached the edge of a precipitous cliff and commenced climbing down over the sharp, irregular rocks with the sea roaring against the base of the precipice several hundred feet below.

“Gosh, I guess Cap’n Edwards was right when he said we needed to be goats,” panted Tom.

“I’d rather have wings,” replied Jim.

Disturbed by the boys’ appearance, thousands of the sea birds rose from their resting places, and with loud cries and screams, whirled and circled about in a perfect cloud until the air seemed filled with them. Soon the boys came to a spot where the rock extended out in an overhanging ledge and, lying on his stomach, Paul peered over the edge.

“I see a-plenty,” he announced, as he drew back. “Want to look?”

Crawling cautiously forward to the brink of the ledge, Tom and Jim looked over and involuntarily drew quickly back. Although they had been accustomed to standing on the lofty crosstrees of the Hector and helping the crew on the yards far above the tumbling sea, they had never felt dizzy or ill at ease, yet, as they glanced over the verge of the precipice, their toes and fingers tingled and they had a vivid, agonizing sensation of pitching over the cliff. Upon the masts or yards there was always something tangible to connect them with the ship, but here, on this overhanging ledge, there was nothing but space between them and the heaving green sea that roared and thundered about an isolated, perpendicular mass of rock that jutted from the water for several hundred feet directly beneath the spot where they stood.

“Whew!” exclaimed Tom. “That’s the first time I ever felt nervous.”

“Me, too,” declared Jim. “Gosh! Can you fellows look over there?”

The two islanders laughed. “Us ain’t nervous,” stated Paul. “Reckon we’re used to it. Come on, look at To’gallant Rock an’ you can see the birds a-sittin’.”

Determined not to be outdone by the two others, Tom and Jim again drew themselves to the edge of the cliff, and by the exertion of all their will power, managed to look down at the mass of rock and at the thousands of sea birds which covered it.

“But I don’t see how we’re going to get to them,” said Tom as all drew back from the edge. “We can’t get down there and no boat could land on the rock if we did.”

Paul and his brother gazed at the speaker in amazement.

“Us goes down on the line,” announced Getty at last. “It’s easy.”

This time it was Tom’s turn to be astonished. “You don’t mean to say you boys really go down there on a rope!” he cried.

“Watch us,” replied Paul with a chuckle. Uncoiling the long rope he had brought, he quickly knotted a bowline in one end, and walking a few yards inland, took a turn and a couple of half-hitches around a stout, wooden stake that was firmly wedged among some rocks.

“Stand by and help me hold the line,” he directed the two boys as his brother adjusted the bowline about him and attached the basket to the rope.

Filled with amazement that any mortal would dare to be lowered over the cliff on the slender line, the boys braced themselves against the rocks and took a firm grasp of the rope as Getty, a broad grin on his freckled face, threw himself upon the ground, and wriggling backwards, let his legs and body drop over the verge of the cliff. For an instant he held on by one hand. Paul and the boys drew the rope taut, and at Getty’s cry of “Lower away!” they slowly paid out the line.

“Guess he’s pretty well down,” remarked Paul, after many feet of the rope had slipped over the edge. “Just hold fast a minute and I’ll see.” Walking to the verge, he called down to his brother and the boys could hear Getty’s reply thin and far away.

“Easy now and stand by when I give the word,” ordered Paul, and, a moment later, “Hold fast! Ease off a bit! All right! Come on and see him.”

Leaving the rope, which was now slack, Tom and Jim joined Paul and peered down. There, far below them, and crouching on a narrow shelf on To’gallant Rock, was Getty, rapidly gathering the sea-birds’ eggs and fighting off the screaming birds that half hid him as they wheeled above his head. From where they were watching, Getty looked like a mere speck and the rock appeared so smooth and perpendicular that it seemed impossible that any human being could find foothold upon it. But even as they looked, Getty stood up, and flattening himself against the rocks, commenced walking around the precipice above the thundering surf. The boys held their breath, expecting each moment to see him miss his footing and fall dangling at the end of the rope, but he calmly continued on his way, stooping now and again as he reached a nest, until at last, looking up, he waved his hand to the boys at the summit of the island.

“Got his basket full up,” announced Paul. “Come on, let’s haul him up.”

Gathering in the slack of the rope, the boys strained and pulled, one of them constantly holding the slack with a turn around the stake, until presently, they heard Getty’s voice, and making the line fast, Paul hurried to the edge of the cliff, leaned over, and lifted up the basket full of eggs. A moment later, Getty pulled himself up on the rope and onto the solid ground.

“Gee, but you have got nerve!” cried Jim. “I wouldn’t do that for anything.”

“Would if you lived on Tristan,” laughed Getty. “Dad says as folk can get used to anything, ’cept dying. All us boys go down to To’gallant Rock.”

“’Tain’t arf so bad’s Ol’ Snorter,” added Paul. “Got to swing right in under there, first out an’ then in like, an’ the rope gets a-twistin’ most fearful. Folk don’t let us boys try that.”

“An’ when a body’s through an’ comin’ up a body must jump off an’ swing out on the line,” supplied Getty. “Want to see it?”

“No, thanks,” Tom assured him. “I’ve seen enough, if there’s anything worse I’ll take your word for it.”

As the boys walked back towards the Potter home, the two islanders told many a story of their life and while Tom and Jim could not understand how any civilized people could be content to dwell in the place year after year, yet they admitted that there was a fascination about the island life.

Cap’n Pem was still at the cottage and welcomed the boys vociferously.

“Was jes’ a-tellin’ Lem ’bout you two scallywags,” he cried. “What ye been up to now? Egging, eh? Well, fresh eggs is allers mighty good. What’s that? Let these two kids o’ Hen’s stump ye! Didn’t the skipper tell ye every one on Tristan’s a goat! Jes’ the same, I’ll bet ye can lick ’em at navigatin’! How about it, boys?”

“Reckon they could,” admitted Paul. “Us can use a sextant though. Dad taught us.”

“I’ve been a-swappin’ yarns with Lem ever since I got here,” chuckled the old whaleman. “When two ol’ sailormen git to gammin’ arter thirty year there’s a tarnation lot to chin erbout. Derned if I hadn’t jes’ been tellin’ ’bout the Hector’s crew o derelicts. Thought Lem’d bust hisself a-laffin’ ’bout havin’ a mate an’ bo’sun both with timber legs an’ a dummy an’ a one-eyed chap aside. Reg’lar home fer cripples, eh?”

“Shucks!” laughed the old islander. “Ye be’nt no cripple, Pem Potter. Why, I sw’ar to goodness, ye’re a better man an’ mate wi’ one leg than many a body wi’ twain. Aye, if ye had none at all ye’d still be middlin’ hard to beat. ’Tis the head an’ heart that makes a body a man, lad, not the legs.”

Then, turning to Tom and Jim, he continued, “Pem tells me ye laddies are main daft o’er yarns o’ the sea. Did he e’er tell ye o’ how he lost his leg?”

“No, sir,” replied Tom promptly. “We never asked him about it.”

“Then, do. Belike he’ll yaw an’ jibe an’ luff a bit, but ’tis no yarn to be ashamed on.”

“Do tell us about it?” begged Tom. “You’ve told us lots of yarns about other men so tell us about yourself.”

“I’ll be derned ef I will,” declared Pem. “Ef this dod-gasted ol’ shellback farmer o’ a cousin o’ mine wants ye to know ’bout my dumb foolishness, jes’ git him to tell ye. Reckon he knows more ’bout it than I do, anyway.”

“Well won’t you tell us then, Mr. Potter?” asked Jim. “I guess Cap’n Pem’s too modest.”

“Aye, that I will,” assented the other. “But first, ye laddies’ll eat. ’Tis humble fare we offer, but fresh an’ wholesome. So sit ye down. Ah, here’s Henry!”

While they had been talking, Paul and Getty’s mother had been preparing the table and the savory odor of appetizing food filled the little room, and as Lem finished speaking a tall, stalwart man appeared in the doorway. Greeting his visitors cordially, the schoolmaster welcomed the boys to his home and the island and apologized for not being on hand before, explaining that he had been on a visit to a family on the other side of the hill and had just heard of the Hector’s arrival.

He spoke with only a slight accent and was evidently well educated. The boys now understood why Paul and Getty should use such good English with only occasional lapses into the Tristan vernacular.

Never had the boys enjoyed a meal better than that which they ate in the little stone cottage on Tristan da Cunha, for the fresh vegetables and meat, the home-made biscuits and fresh butter, the milk and gulls’ egg omelette, the crisp, fried fish and the luscious ripe berries were a marvelously welcome change from the ship’s fare. And as they ate, the boys had an opportunity to glance about at the room and its furnishings. At one side was a huge, stone fireplace. Above it was a narrow shelf bearing an American clock, a number of handsome sea shells and several carved whales’ teeth, while over it, were hung a long-barreled gun and a whale lance. On one side of the room, were shelves covered with books and magazines, with the model of a whaleship on the top shelf, and hanging on the walls were a number of pictures of ships, marine scenes and landscapes evidently taken from illustrated magazines and neatly framed in dark wood. The furniture was plain but good. Bright chintz curtains hung at the windows and everything was spotlessly clean.

Although there were no luxuries, there was every comfort and the boys could scarcely believe they were on this far-away speck of land in the middle of the Atlantic, and not in some sailor’s cottage on Cape Cod or Nantucket.

During the meal, the conversation was all of the outside world:—the war, the whaling business, gossip of old friends and acquaintances and inquiries about the prices of clothing, supplies and many other matters. Paul’s father had not been in the States for many years and he could scarcely credit the changes which Tom and Jim described to him. Both boys had visited New York a few weeks before they sailed, and the islanders listened spellbound as they told of the sky-scrapers, the subway and the countless other marvels of the metropolis. As Tom said afterwards, it was like talking to inhabitants of another planet, for the things which seemed so commonplace to the two American boys were as fascinating as fiction to the Tristan da Cunha family. Although they had seen pictures of motor cars, airplanes, tall buildings and such things, still, to listen to those who actually had seen them, was very different. The two boys had never before realized that there were civilized, white, English speaking people in the world who had never seen any of the things which were such a familiar part of their own every day lives. But when, at last, the meal was over and the talk veered to the Hector and her voyage, the boys reminded old Lem of his promise to tell them the story of Cap’n Pem’s lost leg.