him.

The last resource is to post a man at the masthead (if so lofty an
expression may be allowed in reference to so little a vessel as the
Tomtit), to keep a look-out. Up the rigging swarms Dick the Bilious, in
the lowest spirits--strains his eyes over the waters, and suddenly hails
the gaping deck with a joyous shout. The runaway islands are caught at
last--he sees them a-head of us--he has no objection to make to the
course we are steering--nothing particular to say but "Crack on!"--and
nothing in the world to do but slide down the rigging again. Contentment
beams once more on the faces of Sam, Dick, and Bob. Mr. Migott and I say
nothing; but we look at each other with a smile of triumph. We remember
the injurious doubts of the crew when the charts were last unrolled--and
think of Columbus again, and feel for him more than ever.

Soon the islands are visible from the deck, and by noon we have run in
as near them as we dare without local guidance. They are low-lying, and
picturesque in an artistic point of view; but treacherous-looking and
full of peril to the wary nautical eye. Horrible jagged rocks, and
sinister swirlings and foamings of the sea, seem to forbid the approach
to them. The Tomtit is hove to--our ensign is run up half-mast high--and
we fire our double-barrelled gun fiercely for a pilot.

The pilot arrives in a long, serviceable-looking boat, with a wild,
handsome, dark-haired son, and a silent, solemn old man for his crew. He
himself is lean, wrinkled, hungry-looking; his eyes are restless with
excitement, and his tongue overwhelms us with a torrent of words, spoken
in a strange accent, but singularly free from provincialisms and bad
grammar. He informs us that we must have been set to the northward in
the night by a current, and goes on to acquaint us with so many other
things, with such a fidgety sparkling of the eyes and such a ceaseless
patter of the tongue, that he fairly drives me to the fore part of the
vessel out of his way. Smoothly we glide along, parallel with the jagged
rocks and the swirling eddies, till we come to a channel between two
islands; and, sailing through that, make for a sandy isthmus, where we
see some houses and a little harbour. This is Hugh Town, the chief place
in St. Mary's, which is the largest island of the Scilly group. We jump
ashore in high glee, feeling that we have succeeded in carrying out the
purpose of our voyage in defiance of the prognostications of all our