his negative description, their voyage would be
difficult to describe. It took at least a fortnight, and MacIan, who
was certainly the shrewder sailor of the two, realized that they were
sailing west into the Atlantic and were probably by this time past the
Scilly Isles. How much farther they stood out into the western sea it
was impossible to conjecture. But they felt certain, at least, that they
were far enough into that awful gulf between us and America to make
it unlikely that they would soon see land again. It was therefore with
legitimate excitement that one rainy morning after daybreak they
saw that distinct shape of a solitary island standing up against the
encircling strip of silver which ran round the skyline and separated
the grey and green of the billows from the grey and mauve of the morning
clouds.

"What can it be?" cried MacIan, in a dry-throated excitement. "I didn't
know there were any Atlantic islands so far beyond the Scillies--Good
Lord, it can't be Madeira, yet?"

"I thought you were fond of legends and lies and fables," said Turnbull,
grimly. "Perhaps it's Atlantis."

"Of course, it might be," answered the other, quite innocently and
gravely; "but I never thought the story about Atlantis was very solidly
established."

"Whatever it is, we are running on to it," said Turnbull, equably, "and
we shall be shipwrecked twice, at any rate."

The naked-looking nose of land projecting from the unknown island was,
indeed, growing larger and larger, like the trunk of some terrible and
advancing elephant. There seemed to be nothing in particular, at least
on this side of the island, except shoals of shellfish lying so thick as
almost to make it look like one of those toy grottos that the children
make. In one place, however, the coast offered a soft, smooth bay of
sand, and even the rudimentary ingenuity of the two amateur mariners
managed to run up the little ship with her prow well on shore and her
bowsprit pointing upward, as in a sort of idiotic triumph.

They tumbled on shore and began to unload the vessel, setting the
stores out in rows upon the sand with something of the solemnity of
boys playing at pirates. There were Mr. Wilkinson's cigar-boxes and Mr.
Wilkinson's dozen of champagne and Mr. Wilkinson's tinned salmon and Mr.
Wilkinson's tinned tongue and Mr. Wilkinson's tinned sardines, and every
sort of preserved thing that could be seen at the Army and Navy stores.
Then MacIan stopped with a