I T was broad day when I awoke and found myself
tossing at the southwest end of Treasure Island.
The sun was up, but was still hid from me be-
hind the great bulk of the Spy-glass, which on
this side descended almost to the sea in formidable
cliffs.

Haulbowline Head and Mizzen-mast Hill were at
my elbow, the hill bare and dark, the head bound
with cliffs forty or fifty feet high and fringed with
great masses of fallen rock. I was scarce a quarter
of a mile to seaward, and it was my first thought to
paddle in and land.

That notion was soon given over. Among the
fallen rocks the breakers spouted and bellowed; loud
reverberations, heavy sprays flying and falling, suc-
ceeded one another from second to second; and I saw
myself, if I ventured nearer, dashed to death upon
the rough shore or spending my strength in vain to
scale the beetling crags.

Nor was that all, for crawling together on flat
tables of rock, or letting themselves drop into the
sea with loud reports, I beheld huge slimy monsters
-- soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness -- two

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