be at a small island, one hundred and sixty miles to the southward of Sobago.
"The island is not of great importance," said he. "It is shaped a good deal like the letter B, and this harbor is formed by the double curve on one side. The interior of each of the two portions is mostly marsh land—a good place for tropical fevers. The reef outside of the harbor is well defined on the chart, and extends in a semicircle for many miles."
"Isn't there any opening at all?" queried Dave.
"For small vessels, yes."
"But not for a bark the size of ours?"
"That remains to be found out. I shall go this afternoon and make some soundings."
"If there isn't any opening in the reef, what are we to do?" asked Phil, blankly. "Why, the Stormy Petrel will have to remain here forever!"
"Which puts me in mind of a story, as Shadow Hamilton would say," came from Dave. "I once heard of a fellow who built a rowboat in the garret of his house. After the boat was done, it was so large he couldn't get it out of the door or window, and he had to take the boat apart again."
"If the boys at Oak Hall could see us now!" cried Roger. "But about our ship. We didn't build it here—the tidal wave sent it in, over yonder reef. Now the question arises, how are we to get over the reef again?"
