_Sirdar_, which had struck beyond the tree, relatively to his
present standpoint. He had wondered why no boats were cast ashore. Now
he saw the reason. Three of them were still fastened to the davits and
carried down with the hull.

Seaward the water was not so clear. The waves created patches of foam,
and long submarine plants swayed gently in the undercurrent.

To reach Palm-tree Rock--anticipating its subsequent name--he must
cross a space of some thirty feet and wade up to his waist.

He made the passage with ease.

Pitched against the hole of the tree was a long narrow case, very
heavy, iron-clamped; and marked with letters in black triangles and the
broad arrow of the British Government.

"Rifles, by all the gods!" shouted the sailor. They were really by the
Enfield Small Arms Manufactory, but his glee at this stroke of luck
might be held to excuse a verbal inaccuracy.

The _Sirdar_ carried a consignment of arms and ammunition from
Hong Kong to Singapore. Providence had decreed that a practically
inexhaustible store of cartridges should be hurled across the lagoon to
the island. And here were Lee-Metfords enough to equip half a company.
He would not risk the precious axe in an attempt to open the case. He
must go back for a crowbar.

What else was there in this storehouse, thrust by Neptune from the
ocean bed? A chest of tea, seemingly undamaged. Three barrels of flour,