It was four o'clock in the afternoon when the Scouts detrained at Wadebridge, the termination of their railway journey. Seven miles of hilly country separated them from the village of Polkerwyck. The afternoon was hot and sultry, there was no wind to cool the heated atmosphere; but braced up by the attractiveness of their novel surroundings the lads thought lightly of their march.
By some unexplained means the news of their impending arrival forestalled them, and at the station two Cornish troops, with drum and fife bands, awaited them. With typical kind-heartedness their west country brother-Scouts regaled their London visitors with tea, Cornish cream, pasties and other delicacies for which the Duchy is noted, while to still further perform their good turns they insisted upon dragging the camping party's trek-cart for nearly five miles.
It was a delicious march. Everything seemed strange to the visiting Scouts, and novelty was one of the chief delights of the holiday. The wild, moorland country, the quaint stone cottages, stone walls in place of hedges, the broad yet attractive dialect of the villagers, and last but not least their wholehearted hospitality, filled the lads with unbounded delight, while Mr Trematon, being in his native county, was as enthusiastic and light-hearted as his youthful companions.
The shadows were lengthening as the "Otters" and the "Wolves" breasted the last hill. The lads had relapsed into comparative silence. The strangeness of their surroundings so filled them with keen joy that they could only march in subdued quietness and feast their eyes on the natural beauties of the country.
Suddenly Fred Simpson, who headed the march, stopped, and, raising his stetson on the end of his staff, gave a mighty shout. His example was followed by the others as they gained the summit of the hilly road. Almost beneath his feet, and extending as far as the eye could see, was the sea, bathed in all the reflected glory of the setting sun. Not one of the Scouts had previously seen the sun set in the sea: their knowledge of the seaside was confined to the Kentish and Essex coast towns where the orb of day appears to sink to rest behind the inland hills.
On either hand dark red cliffs cut the skyline, forming the extremities of Polkerwyck Bay. The headlands, fantastic in shape, reared themselves boldly to a height of nearly three hundred feet. On the easternmost point, appropriately named Beware Head, stood a tall granite lighthouse, the stonework painted in red and black bands. On the western headland—Refuge Point—stood the white-washed houses of the coastguard station. Between the headlands was Polkerwyck Bay, the village giving it its name nestling on either side of a small tidal estuary, and enclosed by a gorge so narrow and so deep that the Scouts imagined that they could throw a pebble from the road upon the stone roofs of the picturesque cottages.
Of the estuary, and separated from the land by a stretch of deep blue water, lay what appeared to be a small rock.
"Where's Seal Island, sir?" asked Atherton, who was the first to find his tongue.
"There," replied the Scoutmaster, pointing to the rock.
"Why, it's ever so small," cried several of the Scouts in a chorus.