culty, father," said Benjy, pointing
behind them.

He referred to a slight breeze which was ruffling the sea into what are
called cat's paws far astern.

"Right boy, right. Prepare to hoist your tops'ls, lads," shouted the
Captain.

In a few minutes the kites were expanded and the tow-lines attached.
When the light breeze came up they all soared, heavily, it is true, but
majestically, into the sky. Soon reaching the upper regions, they
caught the steady breeze there, and towed the boats along at the rate of
eight or ten miles an hour.

In two hours they sighted the islet which Chingatok had mentioned, and,
soon afterwards, had landed and taken possession of it, in the usual
manner, under the name of Refuge Island.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

DISCOURSES OF DEEP THINGS.

The islet, or rock, for it was little more, which the explorers had
reached, was low and extremely barren. Nevertheless it had on it a
large colony of sea-fowl, which received the strangers with their wonted
clamour of indignation--if not of welcome.

As it was near noon at the time, the Captain and Leo went with their
sextants to the highest part of the island to ascertain its position;
the Eskimos set about making an encampment, unloading the boats,
etcetera, and Alf, with hammer and botanical box, set off on a short
ramble along the coast, accompanied by Benjy and Butterface.

Sometimes these three kept together and chatted, at other times they
separated a little, each attracted by some object of interest, or
following the lead, it might have been, of wayward fancy. But they
never lost sight of each other, and, after a couple of hours, converged,
as if by tacit consent, until they met and sat down to rest on a ledge
of rock.

"Well, I _do_ like this sort o' thing," remarked Benjy, as he wiped his
heated brow. "There is something to me so pleasant and peaceful about a
low rocky shore with the sun blazing overhead and the great sea
stretching out flat and white in a dead calm with just ripple enough to
let you know it is all alive and hearty--only resting, like a
good-humoured and sleepy giant."

"Why, Ben, I declare you are becoming poetical," said Alf with a smile;
"your conceptions correspond with those of Buzzby, who writes:--

"`Great Ocean, slumb'ring in majestic calm,
Lies like a mighty--a mighty--'

"I--I fear I've forgotten. Let me see:--

"`Great Ocean, slumb'ring in majestic calm,
Lies like a mighty--'"

"Giant i