shark-fins, and the quail that Charlie and Wilbur trapped along
the shore, the trio had nothing to wish for in the way of table
luxuries.

The shore was absolutely deserted, as well as the back country--an
unbroken wilderness of sand and sage. Half a dozen times, Wilbur,
wearying of his inaction aboard the schooner, made the entire
circuit of the bay from point to point. Standing on one of the
latter projections and looking out to the west, the Pacific
appeared as empty of life as the land. Never a keel cut those
waters, never a sail broke the edge of the horizon, never a
feather of smoke spotted the sky where it whitened to meet the
sea. Everything was empty--vast, unspeakably desolate--
palpitating with heat.

Another week passed. Charlie began to complain that the shark
were growing scarce again.

"I think bime-by him go away, once a mo'."

That same night, Wilbur, lying in his hammock, was awakened by a
touch on his arm. He woke to see Moran beside him on the deck.

"Did you hear anything?" she said in a low voice, looking at him
under her scowl.

"No! no!" he exclaimed, getting up, reaching for his wicker
sandals. "Did you?"

"I thought so--something. Did you feel anything?"