There is no fishing to speak of in these inclosed waters; nothing to go after except sponges, which you see dotting the coral floor in black patches.  We gathered one or two, but the sponge in its natural state is not an agreeable object.  It is like a mass of slimy india-rubber, and has to “die” and rot out its animal life, which it does with a protesting perfume of great power, the sponge of our bath-tubs being the macerated skeleton of the once living sponge.

We had hoped to reach our camp, out on the other side of the island, that evening, but that dodging the shoals and sticking in the mud had considerably delayed us.  Besides, though Charlie and the captain both hated to admit it, we had lost our way.  We had been looking all afternoon for Little Wood Cay, but as I said before, one cay was so much like another—­all alike flat, low-lying, desolate islands covered with a uniform scrub and marked by no large trees—­not unbeautiful if one has a taste for melancholy levels, but unpicturesquely depressing and hopeless for eyes craving more featured and coloured “scenery.”

So night began to fall, and, as there is no sailing in such waters at night, we once more cast anchor under a gloomy, black shape of land, exceedingly lonesome and forgotten-looking, which we agreed to call “Little Wood Cay”—­till morning.

Soon all were asleep except Sailor and me.  I lay awake for a long time watching the square yard of stars that shone down through the hatch in our cabin ceiling like a little window looking into eternity, while the waters lapped and lapped outside, and the night talked strangely to itself.  It was a wonderful meeting-place of august lonely things—­that nameless, dark island, that shadowy water heaving vast and mournful, that cry of the wind, that swaying vault of the stars, and, framed in the cabin doorway, the great black head of the old dog, grave and moveless and wondering.

Next morning Charlie and the captain were forced to own up that the island, discovered to the day, was not Little Wood Cay.  No humiliation goes deeper with a sailing man than having to ask his way.  Besides, who was there to ask in that solitude?  Doubtless a cormorant flying overhead knew it, but no one thought to ask him.

However, we were in luck, for, after sailing about a bit, we came upon two lonely negroes standing up in their boats and thrusting long poles into the water.  They were sponging—­most melancholy of occupations—­and they looked forlorn enough in the still dawn.  But they had a smile for our plight.  It was evidently a good joke to have mistaken Sapodilla Cay for Little Wood Cay.  Of course, we should have gone—­“so.”  And “so” we presently went, not without rewarding them for their information with two generous drinks of old Jamaica rum.  I never before saw two men so grateful for a drink.  Their faces positively shone with happiness.  Certainly it must have seemed as if that rum had fallen out of the sky, the last thing those chilled and lonesome men could have hoped for out there in the inhospitable solitude.