orant flying overhead
knew it, but no one thought to ask him.

However, we were in luck, for, after sailing about a bit, we came upon
two lonely negroes standing up in their boats and thrusting long poles
into the water. They were sponging--most melancholy of occupations--and
they looked forlorn enough in the still dawn. But they had a smile for
our plight. It was evidently a good joke to have mistaken Sapodilla Cay
for Little Wood Cay. Of course, we should have gone--"so." And "so" we
presently went, not without rewarding them for their information with
two generous drinks of old Jamaica rum. I never before saw two men so
grateful for a drink. Their faces positively shone with happiness.
Certainly it must have seemed as if that rum had fallen out of the sky,
the last thing those chilled and lonesome men could have hoped for out
there in the inhospitable solitude.

One of our reasons for seeking Little Wood Cay, which it proved had been
close by all the time, was that it is one of the few cays where one can
get fresh water. "Good water here," says the chart. We wanted to refill
some of our jars, and so we landed there, glad to stretch our legs,
while old Tom cooked our breakfast on the beach, under a sapodilla tree.
The vegetation was a little more varied and genial than we had yet seen,
and some small white flowers, growing in long lines, as if they had been
planted, wafted a very sweet fragrance across our breakfast table of
white coral sand. While we were eating, two or three little lizards with
tails curiously twirled round and round, like a St. Catherine wheel,
made themselves friendly, and ate pieces of bread from our hands without
fear.

Now that we knew where we were, it was clear, but by no means careless
sailing to our camp. By noon we had made the trip through the bight and,
passing out of a narrow creek known as Loggerhead Creek, were on the
southwest side of the island. A hundred and fifty miles or so of
straight sailing would have brought us to Cuba, but our way lay north
up the coast, as we had come down the other. Here was the same white
water as the day before, with the bluish track showing the deeper
channel; the same long, monotonous coast; the same dwarf, rusty-green
scrub; not a sign of life anywhere. Nothing but the endless
blue-streaked white water and the endless desert shore. We were making
for what is known as the Wide Opening, a sort of estuary into which a
listless stream or two crawl thro