of Cloghmor. Soon they were within a hundred yards of the rocks, rolling in the backwash from the cliffs. The boats lay-to again and waited. It was still too dark. The light grew stronger, till at last they could make out clearly what lay before them. It was not an encouraging sight. To seaward landing was an obvious impossibility, for, though the swells were not very great, they were breaking heavily against almost vertical cliffs. The north side of the island, where it faced across the bay, was not much better. As they paddled round, the only place which offered the least chance was at the east end, where the cliff curved inwards into a little bay, and outlying rocks broke the force of the seas. The boats drew together, and lay rolling while there was a consultation. It was decided that one boat with a landing party should go in, while the other lay off to give help if, as seemed very likely, help should be required. Delane had sense enough not to offer to land. Even if he had not been so dead beat he knew that half the men there, accustomed to the rocks from childhood, were better climbers than he. But he insisted on being in the landing boat. The men would do better than their best if he was with them. So Delane's boat moved slowly in, and the nearer they went the worse it became. The backwash, in conflict with the regular run of sea and the broken water pouring out of the passage, made a confusion like a tide-rip. They pitched wildly into the steep breaking seas. When they were very near they turned the boatshe was a double ender, like a lifeboat-and backed her in stern first. The four men who were to form the landing party collected in the stern, each with a rope slung across his shoulders. Just as Delane thought they were under the shelter of the outlying rocks, a big wave surged at them and broke green on board, filling the boat almost to the thwarts. They rowed her out, baled her dry, and tried again. This time they were lucky. They saw another big sea sweeping round at them, backed half a dozen furious strokes, and the wave broke on the protecting rocks, driving a solid sheet of spray over them. The sea swept round the rocks and into the bay, raising the boat and carrying her in till it seemed that she would strike the cliffs; but the men held her, the wave recoiled, and as it ebbed the four men jumped for it. The rowers, as they pulled out, saw the men swim and flounder and scramble on shore. Then the boat drew clear, shipping another sea as she did so, to join the other boat, which lay, clear of danger, fifty yards out. side. They had done half their work. Now it lay with the men on shore. At this end the rock was not very sheer. very sheer. The men in the boat sat at their oars and of figures began slowly to waited, rowing a stroke now and then to keep the boats in position. They watched the people on shore climb rapidly. Now and then they stopped to find an easier way; sometimes they had to retrace their steps, but they were never in serious difficulty. They saw them reach the flat top of the island, wave, and disappear. descend the cliffs. They were so massed together that it was not possible for him to see how many of them there were. They climbed in knots or singly, going up and down busily, like ants, till they were all assembled at the bottom of the cliff. For a long time nothing happened. Delane found his tongue, and talked continuously to the man beside him, telling the story of his adventures; but he hardly knew what he was saying. He knew that he ought to be anxious about his friends-so he was in a detached sort of way. But what he wanted, beyond friends or anything else in the world, was to get it all done with one way or the other, and to get home and be alone in a warm bed in a dark room, away from the men and the cold sea, and sleep and sleep and sleep. The sun rose over the hills to the east. At long last the men straightened themselves in their seats, and Delane saw a man's figure show up against the sky, flourish his arms, and vanish again. Then a string They got them on board somehow, Delane never quite knew how. What must have been a pretty desperate business was more like a bad dream to him than anything else. He had the vaguest muddle of memories of white water foaming over dark rocks, and cold flying spray and struggling, cursing men. He saw Jim Carew and Stewart, and the wretched Peter was dragged aboard anyhow, screaming with the pain of a broken arm. When it was over, and the boats started on their long beat home, Delane lay down on the bottom boards and slept. When he awoke he was in a darkened room, lying between dry sheets, warm and comfortable, with the only sound the soft sound of the sea. It was so pleasant that it was some minutes before the memory of what had happened began to come back to him. TWO RUBBERNECKS IN SAN FRANCISCO. OFFICIAL America does not welcome visitors from the Orient with shawms and trumpets, even although "We, George Nathaniel," and "We, Timothy Healy," have vouched for their respectability to the black-coated St Peters who guard the Golden Gate. Instead she rubs into them at every turn that they are poor trash, potential criminals, and unconvicted boot-leggers. She submits them to the ordeal by questioning: "Who were your father, your mother, and your ancestors? Whither are you going, and why and how and whence? Are you a polygamist, anarchist, or drug-taker? Do you wish to overthrow the Constitution of the United States?" She probes relentlessly into the poverty of their families, the condition of their health, the age of their clothes, and all the little aspirations of their hearts; she fines them heavily for their alien inferiority; and she shows them a warning glimpse of the Federal Prison on Alcatraz Island, where evildoers suffer the pangs of Tantalus as they watch the ferryboats that bustle past to the free white towns on the rim of the bay. The humiliated and brokenspirited travellers, uncheered by the deafening strains of "Hail, Columbia " played by the ship's band, who, happy souls, are about to return to Yokohama without setting foot in God's own country, are then ready to crawl on all fours down the gangway, and to prostrate themselves before the terrifying Customs officials of San Francisco. It is easy to deduce, from their hats and features, that the Customs officials had ancestors who were notable judges of pigs in the County Cork. Unfortunately the present generation, although four times as large as their grandfathers, have lost in courtesy and intelligence what they have gained in size, and the majority indeed appear to be deaf and dumb. In vain my explanations, warnings, and reproaches rent the roof as I tried to persuade a particularly huge inspector that a certain battered bootbox only contained several fragile and inexpensive but much adored Chinese clay dragons, which had already been declared. Remorselessly he crushed them to powder with a stout and curious finger and thumb. After some hours of unequal combat, the Customs officials replaced their pig-jobbing hats with saucy Stetsons, and went home to their teas; while the weary travellers authorised the local Carter Patersons to take the fragments of their belongings to their respective hotels. Even then two days, several messengers, innumerable telephone calls, and a personal visit were needed before I regained possession of the rather treasured hold-all that held my sponge-bag. The cupboard in my hotel bedroom contained cotton overcoats for my evening frocks, and paper bags in which to enshrine my tired hats. I had a bathroom all polished white and silver like a magnolia blossom in the moonlight. There was a shoe-shining pad, and a telephone directory, and a chatty scented note of welcome from Gloria P. Tulle, inviting me to pop down, when rested, to see the cute little three pieces she was showing in the basement. Bereft of my sponge, my time-softened loofah and my agreeable tooth-brush, I could not fully appreciate these delights. In despair and a canarycoloured taxi, I eventually renounced sight-seeing and led a rescue party to the docks. The Customs officials seemed unaware of my loss, although it had agitated porters, express agencies, telephone girls, bellhops, fellow guests, and the majority of the inhabitants of sympathetic San Francisco. They shook their heads to all inquiries, but failed to convince me that the hold-all had never existed. However, although pessimistic of results, they had no objection to my making a search. One or two were even good enough, when they had finished their cigars, to take their feet off their desks and to come and look on, in the manner of aged but kindly great-aunts watching the children play "hunt the thimble." our Faced by this taciturn impassivity, our conversation became Italian in speed and gesture, yet robins twittering to elephants would have caused more emotion in their hearers. Eventually we found lost darling under some barrels on a pier, which, we had been given to understand, had not been trodden by the foot of man since the first ship sailed through the Golden Gate. It was flattened but intact, and wore prominently on one side an adhesive label marked "Passed by Customs." Indignantly we squeaked our opinion of the American tariff system, its constitution, and its executive; we compared both to their grave disadvantage with those of other countries; we described how we had suffered owing to waste of time and absence of sponges ; but even a pæan of praise of the manner in which Japan receives her guests did not stir the monumental calm. One official indeed remarked that he guessed the Mutt who failed to free the grip must have been a bit blind, but the others only chewed. We left them standing there, with moving jaws and rapt eyes, as placid and unapologetic as a herd of cows. Provided you have neither lost nor exhausted your letter of credit, the first visit in a strange town has generally to be paid to the bank. The banks of San Francisco are real movie ones, with the officials shut into cages like the lions at the Zoo. To add to the resemblance, each cage is carefully labelled with the name and species of the occupant. Labels are much worn in America. A white card elegantly framed in light oak revealed to us the name of the charming gentleman-the host, let us say, to whom we paid our bills at the hotel. His manners were exquisite, his sympathy about the lost sponge-bag quite touching; his farewells as he packed us into an inordinately expensive hotel taxi had just the right touch of pathos. Six months later a chastely ornate Christmas card brought to us, across some thousands of miles of land and sea, the good wishes of Mr James P. Magilligan. Inferior creatures bear in their button-holes strange labels and tags, which inform the presumably interested world that they are members of the Elks Union or the Hicksville Baseball Fraternity. Once I travelled to Niagara on a lake steamer crowded with stout elderly ladies and small solemn boys. All alike flaunted on their chests miniature white posters announcing playfully: "Excuse my dust, but I am going to Queenston Heights with the Brown St. Baptist Sunday School." On the same steamer we found the best label of all. It was worn by a girl-a pretty, nicely dressed girl of about nineteen. Though she was not of the Brown Street party, one felt that she would have organised races and carried kettles with skill and enthusiasm. Diagonally across the front of her smart coat frock was pinned a broad band of red flannel, on which, in white letters, were, quite incredibly, the words: "I do love to cuddle!" The girls of San Francisco do not wear labels, and in their exquisite completeness they must be among the few perfect things of the world. They obey the commands of fashion with the unanimity of a welldrilled regiment. When we reached California every woman wore an untrimmed felt haycock hat, the rim level with the tip of her nose, a onecolour three-piece costume, shoes that embraced her slim ankles and revealed the roots of her toes, shingled hair, magenta lips, surprised eyebrows one centimetre in width, and carried a black hand-bag like a young suit-case. It may be said that such was the usual dress of women at that period, but everywhere else there are exceptions. The masculine lady, the lacy lady, the bead bonnet lady, the woman in last year's hat, the one that does not bother about clothes, are always with us. Perhaps that is why they are not in San Francisco, where every one of every grade bothers, and women's garb shares the shining alertness of the atmosphere. |