Mike knew the sunken rocks, though, as well as he, and carefully gave them a wide berth; while, as they reached out farther from the land and caught the full power of the soft south-westerly breeze, the boat careened over, the water rattled beneath her bows, and away they went, steering so as to clear the point and get well abreast of the Scraw before going in to investigate, and try if there was an easy way of reaching the sheltered rounded cove.
For some time every rock and point was perfectly familiar; they knew every cavern and rift, and talked and chatted about the days when they had fished here, gone egging there, and climbed up or descended yonder; but after a time the rocks began to look strange.
“Good job for us that Joe’s place is on the other side of the island,” said Vince cheerily. “I say, what a game if he saw the boat going along, and took out his old glass to try and make out what craft it was?”
“But he isn’t this side,” said Mike. “I say, think there are any rocks out here?—because I don’t know them.”
“I don’t think there can be,” said Vince. “Remember coming out here with your father a year ago?”
“Yes,” said Mike; “but we were half a mile farther out, because he said something about the current.”
“Well, of course I don’t know,” said Vince; “but the water looks smooth and deep. We should soon see it working and boiling up if there were any rough rocks at the bottom.”
“Or near the top,” said Mike thoughtfully. “Now, look: oughtn’t we to be seeing the ridge over the Scraw by this time?”
“Not yet,” replied Vince, who was carefully scanning the coast now. “We’ve only just passed the point; and it must be yonder, farther along.”
They both scanned the cliffs very carefully, but they all looked much the same—grey, forbidding, and grand, as they towered up from the water, nowhere showing a place where any one could land.