This shore presented the same arid appearance as the other. Here, too, the vegetable growths were confined to patches of lichen and layers of sea-weeds thrown up by the tide. Was it, then, on a mere islet, a rocky, lonely, uninhabitable island in the Pacific Ocean, that the boat had come ashore? There seemed every reason to fear so.
It appeared useless to carry the exploration as far as the bluff which enclosed the creek. They were about to go back to the boat when James stretched out his hand towards the shore and said:
“What is that I see down there on the sand? Look—those moving specks. They look like rats.”
From the distance it did, indeed, look as if a number of rats were on march together towards the sea.
“Rats?” said Frank enquiringly. “The rat is game, when he belongs to the ondatra genus. Do you remember the hundreds we killed, Fritz, when we made that trip after the boa constrictor?”
“I should think I do, Frank,” Fritz answered; “and I remember, too, that we did not make much of a feast off their flesh, which reeked too much of the marsh.”
“Right!” said the boatswain. “Properly cooked, one can eat those beggars. But there’s no occasion to argue about it. Those black specks over there aren’t rats.”
“What do you think they are, Block?” Fritz asked.
“Turtles.”
“I hope you are right.”