Four Of The Party Had Ventured Out, And We Had Secured A Large Sackful,
After Which We All Retired To The Tent, Except One Of Our Number, Who,
Having A Lady-Love In Cardwell With An Inordinate Affection For Shell-Fish,
Lingered To Fill A Haversack For His 'inamorata'.
We were comfortably
smoking our pipes and watching with satisfaction the tide rising higher and
higher, when a faint "coo-eh" from the direction of the rock reached us,
followed by another and another and another, each one more shrill than the
"By Jove, Wordsworth's in some trouble!" exclaimed one of our party, and,
snatching up our carbines, we hurried to the end of the island at which
stood the Sail Rock. The tide had now risen considerably, and the water
between the rock and ourselves was over four feet deep, and increasing in
depth each moment. We saw poor Wordsworth clinging on to the slippery
wall, as high up as the smooth mass afforded hand-hold.
"Come along, old fellow!" we shouted; "it's not up to your neck yet."
"He turned his head over his shoulder - even at the distance we were, its
pallor was quite visible - and slowly and cautiously releasing one hand,
he pointed to the water between himself and the island.
"By Jove!" cried the pilot, "he's bailed up by a shark, look at his
sprit-sail!" and following his finger we saw an enormous black fin sailing
gently to and fro, as regularly and methodically as a veteran sentry paces
the limits of his post.
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