thers again rising
and falling in the billows. This wreckage constituted a miscellaneous
jumble, although most of it was lumber from the deck-loads of the
vessels. Intermingled with the split and broken yellow boards were bits
of carving and of painted wood. Carroll saw one piece half buried in the
sand which bore in gilt two huge letters, A R. A little farther, bent
and twisted, projected the ornamental spear which had pointed the way
before the steamer's bow. Portions of the usual miscellaneous freight
cargo carried on every voyage were scattered along the shore--boxes,
barrels, and crates. Five or six men had rolled a whisky barrel beyond
the reach of the water, had broached it, and now were drinking in turn
from a broken and dingy fragment of a beer-schooner. They were very
dirty; their hair had fallen over their eyes, which were bloodshot;
the expression of their faces was imbecile. As the phaeton passed, they
hailed its occupants in thick voices, shouting against the wind maudlin
invitations to drink.

The crowd gathered at the pier comprised fully half the population of
Monrovia. It centred about the life saving crew, whose mortar was
being loaded. A stove-in lifeboat mutely attested the failure of other
efforts. The men worked busily, ramming home the powder sack, placing
the projectile with the light line attached, attending that the reel ran
freely. Their chief watched the seas and winds through his glasses. When
the preparations were finished, he adjusted the mortar, and pulled
the string. Carroll had seen this done in practice. Now, with the
recollection of that experience in mind, she was astonished at the
feeble report of the piece, and its freedom from the dense white clouds
of smoke that should have enveloped it. The wind snatched both noise and
vapour away almost as soon as they were born. The dart with its trailer
of line rose on a long graceful curve. The reel sang. Every member of
the crowd unconsciously leaned forward in attention. But the resistance
of the wind and the line early made itself felt. Slower and slower
hummed the reel. There came a time when the missile seemed to hesitate,
then fairly to stand in equilibrium. Finally, in an increasingly abrupt
curve, it descended into the sea. By a good three hundred yards the shot
had failed to carry the line over the vessels.

"There's Mr. Bradford," said Carroll, waving her hand. "I wish he'd come
and tell us something about it."

The banjo-playi