“That’s so,” said Candon, “I’ve met in with them right down to the Gulf of California and beyond. It’s against the law to take abalones in most places round here, but much they care.”
“They’d lay hands on any old thing,” said Hank. “Wonder what that crowd is doing here?”
The morrow was to tell him.
CHAPTER XV
WHAT THE CHINKS WERE DOING
THEY had fixed to row ashore after breakfast but fishing held them till afternoon. Candon, not keen on the business of climbing over rocks, remained behind to finish tinkering at the engine which he had almost got into working order.
Usually there is a big swell running here, but to-day there was only a gentle heave lifting the long green vine tendrils of the kelp. It was like rowing over a forest. On the beach they left the boat to the two Chinamen who had rowed them off and, Hank leading the way, they started to the right towards the great sand spit that runs into the sea for half a mile or more.
A Farallone cormorant, circling in the blue above, seemed to watch them; it passed with a cry, leaving the sky empty and nothing to hear but the wash of the sea on the beaches and far off an occasional gull’s voice from the spit. Reaching a great forward leaning rock, they took their seats in the shade of it to rest and light their pipes. The sand lay before them, jutting into the kelp-oily sea and beyond the kelp the blue of the kuro shiwo. The Wear Jack was out of sight, the horizon seemed infinitely far and of a world where men were not or from whence men had departed for ever.
“Say, Bud,” said Hank, leaning on his side with a contented sigh, “ain’t this great!”