Truly the _Yan-Shan_, late _Robert Bullmer_, had made a masterpiece of
her last business; she had come stem on, lifted by the piling sea, and
had hit the rocks, smashing every bow-plate from the keel to within a
yard or two of the gunnel, then a wave had taken her under the stern
and lifted her and flung her broadside on just as she now lay, pinned
to her position by the rock horns that had gored her side, and showing
a space of her rust-red bottom to the sun.
The water was squattering among the rocks right up to her, the
phosphor-bronze propeller showed a single blade cocked crookedly at the
end of the broken screw shaft; rudder there was none, the funnel was
gone, spar deck and bridge were in wrack and ruin, whilst the cowl of a
bent ventilator turned seaward seemed contemplating with a languid air
the beauty of the morning and the view of the far distant San Lucas
Islands.
The _Heart of Ireland_ picked up a berth inside the junk, and as the
rasp and rattle of the anchor chain came back in faint echoes from the
cliff, a gong on the junk woke to life and began to snarl and roar its
warning to the fellows on the wreck.
"Down with the boat," cried Ginnell.
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