Front matter (continued 7)

“It wants magic,” said Bevis. “I ought to have studied magic more; only there are no magic books now.”

“But you can think, I know. Now, think hard—hard.”

“First,” said Bevis slowly, tracing out the proceedings in his imagination; “first we must bring all our things—the gun and powder, and provisions, and great-coats, and the astrolabe, and spears, and leave them all here.”

“Pan ought to come,” said Mark, “to watch the hut.”

“So he did; he shall come, and besides, if we shoot a wild duck he can swim out and fetch it.”

“Now go on,” said Mark. “First, we bring everything and Pan.”

“Tie him up,” said Bevis, “and row home in the boat. Then the thing is, how are we to get to the island?”

“Swim,” said Mark.

“Too far.”

“But we needn’t swim all up the New Sea. Couldn’t we swim from where we landed that night after the battle?”

“Ever so much better. Let’s go and look,” said Bevis.

Away they went to the shore on that side of the island, but they saw in a moment that it was too far. It was two hundred yards to the sedges on the bank where they had landed that night. They could not trust themselves to swim more than fifty or sixty yards; there was, too, the risk of weeds, in which they might get entangled.

“I know!” said Bevis, “I know! You stop on the island with Pan. I’ll sail the Pinta into harbour, then I’ll paddle back on the catamaran.”

“There!” said Mark, “I knew you could do it if you thought hard. We could bring the catamaran up in the boat, and leave it in the sedges there ready.”

“I can leave half my clothes on the island,” said Bevis, “and tie the rest on my back, and paddle here from the sedges in ten minutes. That will be just like the savages do.”

“I shall come too,” said Mark. “I shan’t stop here. Let Pan be tied up, and I’ll paddle as well.”

“The catamaran won’t bear two.”

“Get another. There’s lots of planks. I will come—it’s much jollier paddling than sitting here and doing nothing.”

“Capital,” said Bevis. “We’ll have two catamarans, and paddle here together.”

“First-rate. Let’s be quick and get the things on the island.”

“There will be such a lot,” said Bevis. “The matchlock, and the powder, and the flour, and—”

“Salt,” said Mark. “Don’t you remember the moorhen. Things are not nice without salt.”

“Yes, salt and matches, and pots for cooking, and a lantern, and—”

“Ever so many cargoes,” said Mark. “As there’s such a lot, and as we can’t go home and fetch anything if it’s forgotten, hadn’t you better write a list?”

“So I will,” said Bevis. “The pots and kettles will be a bother, they will want to know what we are going to do.”

“Buy some new ones.”

“Right; and leave them at Macaroni’s.”

“Come on. Sail home and begin.”

They launched the Pinta, and the spanking south-easterly breeze carried them swiftly into harbour. At home there was a small parcel, very neatly done up, addressed to “Captain Bevis.”

“That’s Frances’s handwriting,” said Mark. Bevis cut the string and found a flag inside made from a broad red ribbon cut to a point.

“It’s a pennant,” said Bevis. “It will do capitally. How was it we never thought of a flag before?”

“We were so busy,” said Mark. “Girls have nothing to do, and so they can remember these sort of stitched things.”

“She shall have a bird of paradise for her hat,” said Bevis. “We shall be sure to shoot one on the island.”

“I shouldn’t give it to her,” said Mark. “I should sell it. Look at the money.”

In the evening they took a large box (which locked) up to the boat, carrying it through the courtyard with the lid open—ostentatiously open—and left it on board. Next morning they filled it with their tools. Bevis kept his list and pencil by him, and as they put in one thing it suggested another, which he immediately wrote down. There were files, gimlets, hammers, screw-drivers, planes, chisels, the portable vice, six or seven different sorts of nails, every tool indeed they had. The hatchet and saw were already on the island. Besides these there were coils of wire and cord, balls of string, and several boxes of safety and lucifer matches. This was enough for one cargo, they shut the lid, and began to loosen the sails ready for hoisting.

“You might take us once.”

“You never asked us.”

Tall Val and little Charlie had come along the bank unnoticed while they were so busy.

“I wish you would go away,” said Mark, beginning to push the Pinta afloat. The ballast and cargo made her drag on the sand.

“Bevis,” said Val, “let us have one sail.”

“All the times you’ve been sailing,” said Charlie, “and all by yourselves, and never asked anybody.”

“And after we banged you in the battle,” said Val. “If you did beat us, we hit you as hard as we could.”

“It was a capital battle,” said Bevis hesitatingly. He had the halyard in his hand, and paused with the mainsail half hoisted.

“Whopping and snopping,” said Charlie.

“Charging and whooping and holloaing,” said Val.

“Rare,” said Bevis. “Yes; you fought very well.”

“But you never asked us to have a sail.”

“Not once—you didn’t.”

“Well, it’s not your ship. It’s our ship,” said Mark, giving another push, till the Pinta was nearly afloat.

“Stop,” cried Charlie, running down to the water’s edge. “Bevis, do take us—”

“It’s very selfish of you,” said Val, following.

“So it is,” said Bevis. “I say, Mark—”

“Pooh!” said Mark, and with a violent shove he launched the boat, and leaped on board. He took a scull, and began to row her head round. The wind was north and light.

“I hate you,” said Charlie. “I believe you’re doing something. What’s in that box.”

“Ballast, you donk,” said Mark.

“That it isn’t, I saw it just before you shut the lid. It’s not ballast.”

“Let’s let them come,” said Bevis irresolutely.

“You awful stupe,” said Mark, under his breath. “They’ll spoil everything.”

“And why do you always sail one way?” said Val. “We’ve seen you ever so many times.”

“I won’t be watched,” said Bevis angrily: he, unconsciously, endeavoured to excuse his selfishness under rage.

“You can’t help it.”

“I tell you, I won’t.”

“You’re not General Caesar now.”

“I hate you,” pulling up the mainsail. Mark took the rope and fastened it; Bevis sat down to the tiller.

“You’re a beast,” screamed little Charlie, as the sails drew and the boat began to move: the north wind was just aft.

“I never thought you were so selfish,” shouted Val. “Go on—I won’t ask you again.”

“Take that,” said Charlie, “and that—and that.”

He threw three stones, one after the other, with all his might: the third, rising from the surface of the water, struck the Pinta’s side sharply.

“Aren’t they just horrid?” he said to Val.

“I never saw anything like it,” said Val. “But we’ll pay them out, somehow.”

On the boat, Bevis looked back presently, and saw them still standing at the water’s edge.

“It’s a pity,” he said; “Mark, I don’t like it: shall we have them?”

“How can we? Of course they would spoil everything; they would tell everybody, and we could never do it; and, besides, the new island would not be a new island, if everybody was there.”

“No more it would.”

“We can take them afterwards—after we’ve done the island. That will be just as well.”

“So it will. They will watch us, though.”

“It’s very nasty of them to watch us,” said Mark. “Why should we take them for sails when they watch us?”

“I hate being watched,” said Bevis.

“They will just make everything as nasty for us as they can,” said Mark; “and we shall have to be as cunning as ever we can be.”

“We will do it, though, somehow.”

“That we will.”

The light north wind wafted the Pinta gently up the New Sea: the red pennant, fluttering at the mast, pointed out the course before them. They disposed of their first cargo in the store-room, or cave, placing the tools in a sack, though the cave was as dry as the box, that there might not be the least chance of their rusting. The return voyage was slow, for they had to work against the wind, and it was too light for speed. They looked for Charlie and Val, but both were gone.

Another cargo was ready late in the afternoon. They carried the things up in the flag-basket, and, before filling the box, took care to look round and behind the shed where the sculls were kept, lest any one should be spying. Hitherto they had worked freely, and without any doubt or suspicion: now they were constantly on the watch, and suspected every tree of concealing some one. Bevis chafed under this, and grew angry about it. In filling the box, too, they kept the lid towards the shore, and hoisted the mainsail to form a screen.

Mark took care that there should be some salt, and several bags of flour, and two of biscuits, which they got from a whole tinful in the house. He remembered some pepper too, but overlooked the mustard. They took several tins of condensed milk. From a side of bacon, up in the attic, they cut three streaky pieces, and bought some sherry at the inn; for they thought if they took one of the bottles in the house, it would be missed, and that the servants would be blamed. Some wine would be good to mix with the water; for though they meant to take a wooden bottle of ale, they knew it would not keep.

Then there was a pound of tea, perhaps more; for they took it from the chest, and shovelled it up like sand, both hands full at once. A bundle of old newspapers was tied up, to light the fire; for they had found, by experience, that it was not easy to do so with only dry grass. Bevis hunted about till he discovered the tin mug he had when he was a little boy, and two tin plates. Mark brought another mug. A few knives and forks would never be missed from the basketful in the kitchen; and, in choosing some spoons, they were careful not to take silver, because the silver was counted every evening.

They asked if they could have a small zinc bucket for the boat; and when they got it, put three pounds or more of knob sugar in it, loose; and covered it over with their Turkish bathing-towels, in which they had wrapped up a brush and comb. Just as they were about to start, they remembered soap and candles. To get these things together, and up to the Pinta, took them some hours, for they often had to wait awhile till people were out of the way before they could get at the cupboards. In the afternoon, as they knew, some of the people went upstairs to dress, and that was their opportunity. By the time they had landed, and stowed away this cargo, the sun was declining.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

More Cargoes—All Ready.

Next morning the third cargo went; they had to row, for the New Sea was calm. It consisted of arms. Bevis’s favourite bow, of course, was taken, and two sheaves of arrows; Mark’s spears and harpoon; the crossbow, throw-sticks, the boomerang and darts; so that the armoury was almost denuded.

Besides these there were fish-hooks (which were put in the box), fishing-rods, and kettles; an old horn-lantern, the old telescope, the astrolabe, scissors and thread (which shipwrecked people always have); a bag full of old coins, which were to be found in the sand on the shore, where a Spanish galleon had been wrecked (one of those the sunken galley had been convoying when the tornado overtook them); a small looking-glass, a piece of iron rod, six bottles of lemonade, a cribbage-board and pack of cards, and a bezique pack; a basket of apples, and a bag of potatoes. The afternoon cargo was clothes, for they thought they might want a change if it was wet; so they each took one suit, carefully selecting old things that had been disused, and would not be missed.

Then there were the great-coats for the bed; these were very awkward to get up to the boat, and caused many journeys, for they could only take one coat each at a time.

“What a lot of rubbish you are taking to your boat,” said mamma once. “Mind you don’t sink it: you will fill your boat with rubbish till you can’t move about.”

“Rubbish!” said Bevis indignantly. “Rubbish, indeed!”

They so often took the rugs that there was no need to conceal them. Mark hit on a good idea and rolled up the barrel of the matchlock in one of the rugs, and with it the ramrod. In the other they hid the stock and powder-horn, and so got them to the boat; chuckling over Mark’s device, by which they removed the matchlock in broad daylight.

“If Val’s watching,” said Bevis, as they came up the bank with the rugs, the last part of the load, “he’ll have to be smashed.”

“People who spy about ought to be killed,” said Mark. “Everything ought to be done openly,” carefully depositing the concealed barrel in the stern-sheets. This was the most important thing of all. When they had got the matchlock safe in the cave, they felt that the greatest difficulty was surmounted.

John Young had brought their anvil, the 28 pound weight, for them to the bank, and it was shipped. He bought a small pot for boiling, the smallest size made, for them in Latten, also a saucepan, a tin kettle, and teapot. One of the wooden bottles, like tiny barrels, used to send ale out to the men in the fields, was filled with strong ale. Mark drew it in the cellar which had once been his prison, carefully filling it to the utmost, and this John got away for them rolled up in his jacket. The all-potent wand of the enchanter Barleycorn was held over him; what was there he would not have done for them?

He was all the more ready to oblige them because since Mark’s imprisonment in the cellar, Bevis and Mark had rather taken his part against the Bailiff, and got him out of scrapes. Feeling that he had powerful friends at court, John did not trouble to work so hard. They called at the cottage for the pot and the other things, which were in a sack ready for them. Loo fetched the sack, and Bevis threw it over his shoulder.

“I scoured them well,” said Loo. “They be all clean.”

“Did you?” said Bevis. “Here,” searching his pocket. “O! I’ve only a fourpenny piece left.” He gave it to her.

“I can cook,” said Loo wistfully, “and make tea.” This was a hint to them to take her with them; but away they strode unheeding. The tin kettle and teapot clashed in the sack.

“I believe I saw Val behind that tree,” said Bevis.

“He can’t see through a sack though,” said Mark.

The wind was still very light, and all the morning was occupied in delivering this cargo. The cave or store-room was now crammed full, and they could not put any more without shelves.

“That’s the last,” said Mark, dragging the heavy anvil in. “Except Pan.”

“And my books,” said Bevis, “and ink and paper. We must keep a journal of course.”

“So we must,” said Mark. “I forgot that. It will make a book.”

“‘Adventures in New Formosa,’” said Bevis.

“We’ll write it every evening after we’ve done work, don’t you see.”

When they got home he put his books together—the Odyssey, Don Quixote, the grey and battered volume of ballads, a tiny little book of Shakespeare’s poems, of which he had lately become very fond, and Filmore’s rhymed translation of Faust. He found two manuscript books for the journal; these and the pens and ink-bottle could all go together in the final cargo with Pan.

All the while these voyages were proceeding they had been thinking over how they should get away from home without being searched for, and had concluded that almost the only excuse they could make would be that they were going to spend a week or two with Jack. This they now began to spread about, and pretended to prepare for the visit. As they expected, it caused no comment. All that was said was that they were not to stop too long. Mamma, did not much like the idea of being left by herself, but then it was quite different to their being away in disgrace.

But she insisted upon Bevis writing home. Bevis shrugged his shoulders, foreseeing that it would be difficult to do this as there was no post-office on New Formosa; but it was of no use, she said he should not go unless he promised to write.

“Very well,” said Bevis. “Letters are the stupidest stupidity stupes ever invented.”

But now there arose a new difficulty, which seemed as if it could not be got over. How were they to tell while they were away on the island, and cut off from all communication with the mainland, what was going on at home; whether it was all right and they were supposed to be at Jack’s, or whether they were missed? For though so intent on deceiving the home authorities, and so ingenious in devising the means, they stopped at this.

They did not like to think that perhaps Bevis’s governor and mamma, who were so kind, would be miserable with anxiety on finding that they had disappeared. Mark, too, was anxious about his Jolly Old Moke. With the usual contradiction of the mind they earnestly set about to deceive their friends, and were equally anxious not to give them any pain. After all their trouble, it really seemed as if this would prevent the realisation of their plans. A whole day they walked about and wondered what they could do, and got quite angry with each other from simple irritation.

At last they settled that they must arrange with some one so as to know, for if there was any trouble about them they meant to return immediately. Both agreed that little Charlie was the best they could choose; he was as quick as lightning, and as true as steel.

“Just remember,” said Bevis, “how he fetched up Cecil in the battle.”

“That just made all the difference,” said Mark. “Now I’ll manage it with him; don’t you come, you leave him to me; you’re so soft—”

“Soft!—Well, I like that.”

“No; I don’t mean stupid—so easy. There, don’t look like that. You tell me—you think what Charlie must do—and I’ll manage him.”

Bevis thought and considered that Charlie must give them a signal—wave a handkerchief. Charlie must stand on some conspicuous place visible from New Formosa; by the quarry would be the very place, at a certain fixed time every day, and wave a white handkerchief, and they could look through the telescope and see him. If anything was wrong, he could take his hat off and wave that instead. Mark thought it would do very well, and set out to find and arrange with Charlie.

Being very much offended because he had not been taken for a sail, Charlie was at first very off-hand, and not at all disposed to do anything. But when shrewd Mark let out as a great secret that he and Bevis were going to live in the wood at the end of the New Sea for a while like savages, Charlie began to relent, for all his sympathies went with the idea.

Mark promised him faithfully that when he and Bevis had done it first, he should come too if he would help them. Charlie gave in and agreed, but on condition that he should be taken for a sail first. Eager as Mark was for the island, it was no good trying to persuade Charlie, he adhered to his stipulation, and Mark had to yield. However, he reflected that if they took Charlie for a sail he would be certain to do as he promised, and besides that it would make Val jealous, and he and Charlie would quarrel, and so they would not be always watching.

So it was settled—Charlie to have a sail, and then every afternoon at four o’clock he was to stand just above the quarry and wave a white handkerchief if all was right. If Bevis and Mark were missed he was to take off his hat, and wave that. As he had no watch, Charlie was to judge the time by the calling of the cows to be milked—the milkers make a great hullabaloo and shouting, which can be heard a long distance off.

“I said we were going to live in the wood,” Mark told Bevis when he came back. “Then he won’t think we’re on the island. If he plays us any trick he’ll go and try and find us in the wood.”

While Mark was gone about the signal, Bevis, thinking everything over, remembered the letter he had promised to write home. To post the letter one or other of them must go on the mainland, if by day some one would very likely see them and mention it, and then the question would arise why they came near without going home? Bevis went up to the cottage, and told Loo to listen every evening at ten o’clock out of her window, which looked over the field at the back, and if she heard anybody whistle three notes, “Foo-tootle-too,” to slip out, as it would be them.

“That I will,” said Loo, delighted. “I’ll come in a minute.”

Charlie had his sail next morning, but they took care not to go near the island. Knowing how sharp his eyes were, they tacked to and fro in Mozambique and Fir-Tree Gulf. Charlie learned to manage the foresail in five minutes, then the tiller, and to please him the more they let him act as captain for a while. He promised most faithfully to make the signal every day, and they knew he would do it.

In the afternoon they thought and thought to see if there was anything they had forgotten, and to try and call things to mind, wandered all over the house, but only recollected one thing—the gridiron. There were several in the kitchen. They took an old one, much burnt, which was not used. With this and Bevis’s books they visited New Formosa, rowing up towards evening, and upon their return unshipped the mast, and took it and the sails home, else perhaps Val or some one would launch the Pinta and try to sail in their absence. They meant to padlock the boat with a chain, but if the sails were in her it would be a temptation to break the lock. There was now nothing to take but Pan, and they were so eager for the morning that it was past midnight before they could go to sleep.

The morning of the 3rd of August—the very day Columbus sailed—the long desired day, was beautifully fine, calm, and cloudless. They were in such haste to start they could hardly say “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Polly the dairymaid.

“Don’t want to see you,” said Bevis. Polly was not yet forgiven for the part she had taken in hustling Mark into the cellar. They had got out into the meadow with Pan, when Bevis’s mother came running after.

“Have you any money?” she asked, with her purse in her hand.

They laughed, for the thought instantly struck them that they could not spend money on New Formosa, but they did not say they did not want any. She gave them five shillings each, and kissed them again. She watched them till they went through the gateway with Pan, and were hidden from sight.

Pan leaped on board after them, and they rowed to the island. It was so still, the surface was like glass. The spaniel ran about inside the stockade, and sniffed knowingly at the coats on the bedstead, but he did not wag his tail or look so happy when Bevis suddenly drew his collar three holes tighter and buckled it. Bevis knew very well if his collar was not as tight as possible Pan would work his head out. They fastened him securely to the post at the gateway in the palisade, and hastened away.

When Pan realised that they were really gone, and heard the sound of the oars, he went quite frantic. He tugged, he whined, he choked, he rolled over, he scratched, and bit, and shook, and whimpered; the tears ran down his eyes, his ears were pulled over his head by the collar, against which he strained. But he strained in vain. They heard his dismal howls almost down to the Mozambique.

“Poor Pan!” said Bevis. “He shall have a feast the first thing we shoot.”

They had left their stockings on the island, and everything else they could take off so as not to have very large bundles on their backs while paddling, and took their pocket-knives out of their trouser’s pockets and left them, knowing things are apt to drop out of the pockets. The Pinta was drawn up as far as she would come on the shore at the harbour, and then fastened with a chain, which they had ready, to a staple and padlocked. Mark had thought of this, so that no one could go rowing round, and he had a piece of string on the key with which he fastened it to a button-hole of his waistcoat that it might not be lost.

This done, they got through the hedge, and retraced the way they had come home on the night of the battle, through the meadows, the cornfields, and lastly across the wild waste pasture or common. From there they scrambled through the hedges and the immense bramble thickets, and regained the shore opposite their island.

They went down the marshy level to the bank, and along it to the beds of sedges, where, on the verge of the sea, they had hidden the catamarans. There they undressed, and made their clothes and boots into bundles, and slung them over their shoulders with cord. Then they hauled their catamarans down to the water.

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

New Formosa.

Splash!

“Is it deep?”

“Not yet.”

Bevis had got his catamaran in and ran out with it some way, as the water was shallow, till it deepened, when he sat astride and paddled.

“Come on,” he shouted.

Splash!

“I’m coming.”

Mark ran in with his in the same manner, and sitting astride paddled about ten yards behind.

“Weeds,” said Bevis, feeling the long rough stalks like string dragging against his feet.

“Where? I can’t see.”

“Under water. They will not hurt.”

“There goes a flapper,” (a young wild duck). “I hope we shan’t see the magic wave.”

“Pooh!”

“My bundle is slipping.”

“Pull it up again.”

“It’s all right now.”

“Holloa! Land,” said Bevis, suddenly standing up.

He had reached a shallow where the water was no deeper than his knees.

“A jack struck. There,” said Mark, as he too stood up, and drew his catamaran along with his hand.

Splash!

Bevis was off again, paddling in deeper water. Mark was now close behind.

“There’s a coot; he’s gone into the sedges.”

“Parrots,” said Mark, as two wood-pigeons passed over.

“Which is the right channel?” said Bevis, pausing.

They had now reached the great mass of weeds which came to the surface, and through which it was impossible to move. There were two channels, one appeared to lead straight to the island, the other wound about to the right.

“Which did we come down in the Pinta, when we hid the catamarans?” said Mark.

“Stupe, that’s just what I want to know.”

“Go straight on,” said Mark; “that looks clearest.”

So it did, and Bevis went straight on; but when they had paddled fifty yards they both saw at once that they could not go much farther that way, for the channel curved sharply, and was blocked with weeds.

“We must go back,” said Mark.

“We can’t turn round.”

“We can’t paddle backwards. There I’m in the weeds.”

“Turn round on the plank.”

“Perhaps I shall fall off.”

“Sit sideways first.”

“The plank tips.”

“Very well, I’ll do it first,” said Bevis.

He turned sideways to try and get astride, looking the other way. The plank immediately tipped and pitched him into the water, bundle and all.

“Ah!” said Mark. “Thought you could do it so easy; didn’t you?”

Bevis threw his right arm over the plank, and tried to get on it; but every time he attempted to lift his knee over, the catamaran gave way under him. His paddle floated away. The bundle of clothes on his back, soaked and heavy, kept him down.

Mark paddled towards him, and tried to lift him with one hand, but nearly upset himself. Bevis struggled hard to get on, and so pushed the plank sideways to the edge of the weeds. He felt the rough strings again winding round his feet.

“You’ll be in the weeds,” said Mark, growing alarmed. “Come on my plank. Try. I’ll throw my bundle off.” He began to take it from his back. “Then it will just keep you up. O!”

Bevis put his hands up, and immediately sank under the surface, but he had done it purposely, to free himself from his bundle. The bundle floated, and the cord slipped over his head. Bringing his hands down Bevis as instantly rose to the surface, bumping his head against the catamaran.

“Now I can do it,” he said, blowing the water from his nostrils.

He seized the plank, and laid almost all along in the water, so as to press very lightly on it, his weight being supported by the water, then he got his knee over and sat up.

“Hurrah!”

The bundle was slowly settling down when Mark seized it.

“Never mind about the things being wet,” he said. “Sit still; I’ll fetch your paddle.”

Dragging the bundle in the water by the cord, Mark went after, and recovered Bevis’s paddle. To come back he had to back water, and found it very awkward even for so short a distance. The catamaran would not go straight.

“O! what a stupe I was,” said Bevis. “I’ve got on the same way again.”

In his hurry he had forgotten his object, and got astride facing the island as before.

“Well, I never,” said Mark. “Stop—don’t.”

Bevis slipped off his catamaran again, but this time not being encumbered with the bundle he was up on it again in half a minute, and faced the mainland.

“There,” said he. “Now you can come close. That’s it. Now give me your bundle.”

Mark did so. Afterwards Bevis took the cord of his own bundle, which being in the water was not at all heavy. “Now you can turn.”

Mark slipped off, but managed so that his chest was still on the plank. In that position he worked himself round and got astride the other way.

“Done very well,” said Bevis; “ever so much better than I did. Here.”

Mark slung his bundle, and they paddled back to the shallow water, Bevis towing his soaked dress. They stood up in the shallow and rested a few minutes, and Bevis fastened his bundle to his plank just in front of where he sat.

“Come on.” Off he went again, following the other channel this time. It wound round a bank grown with sedges, and then led straight into a broader and open channel, the same they had come down in the boat. They recognised it directly, and paddled faster.

“Hark! there’s Pan,” said Mark.

As they came near the island, Pan either scented them or heard a splashing, for he set up his bark again. He had choked himself silent before.

“Pan! Pan!” shouted Bevis, whistling.

Yow—wow—wow!

“Hurrah!”

“Hurrah!”

They ran up on the shore of New Formosa, and began to dance and caper, kicking up their heels.

Yow-wow—wow-wow!

“Pan! I’m coming,” said Bevis, and began to run, but stopped suddenly.

Thistles in the grass and trailing briars stayed him. He put on his wet boots, and then picking his way round, reached the hut. He let Pan loose. The spaniel crouched at his feet and whimpered, and followed him, crawling on the ground. Bevis patted him, but he could not leap up as usual, the desertion had quite broken his spirit for the time. Bevis went into the hut, and just as he was, with nothing on but his boots, took his journal and wrote down “Wednesday.”

“There,” said he to Mark, who had now come, more slowly, for he carried the two bundles, “there, I’ve put down the day, else we shall lose our reckoning, don’t you see.”

They were soon dressed. Bevis put on the change he had provided in the store-room, and spread his wet clothes out to dry in the sun. Pan crept from one to the other; he could not get enough patting, he wanted to be continually spoken to and stroked. He would not go a yard from them.

“What’s the time?” said Bevis, “my watch has stopped.” The water had stopped it.

“Five minutes to twelve,” said Mark. “You must write down, ‘We landed on the island at noon.’”

“So I will to-night. My watch won’t go; the water is in it.”

“Lucky mine did not got wet too.”

“Hang yours up in the hut, else perhaps it will get stopped somehow, then we shan’t know the time.”

Mark hung his watch up in the hut, and caught sight of the wooden bottle.

“The first thing people do is to refresh themselves,” he said. “Let’s have a glass of ale: splendid thing when you’re shipwrecked—”

“A libation to the gods,” said Bevis. “That’s the thing; you pour it out on the ground because you’ve escaped.”

“O!” said Mark, opening the bottle. “Now just look! And I filled it to the brim so that I could hardly get the cork in.”

“John,” said Bevis.

“The rascal.”

“Ships’ provisions are always scamped,” said Bevis; “somebody steals half, and puts in rotten biscuits. It’s quite proper. Why, there’s a quart gone.”

John Young, carrying the heavy bottle, could not resist just taking out the cork to see how full it was. And his mouth was very large.

“Here’s a mug,” said Mark, who had turned over a heap of things and found a tin cup. They each had a cupful.

“Matchlock,” said Bevis.

“Matchlock,” said Mark. For while they drank both had had their eyes on their gun-barrel.

“Pliers,” said Bevis, taking it up. “Here’s the wire; I want the pliers.”

It was not so easy to find the pliers under such a heap of things.

“Store-room’s in a muddle,” said Mark.

“Put it right,” said the captain.

“I’ve got it.”

Bevis put the barrel in the stock, and began twisting the copper wire round to fasten it on. Mark searched for the powder-horn and shot-bag. Three strands were twisted neatly and firmly round the barrel and stock—one near the breech, one half-way up, the third near the muzzle. It was then secure.

“It looks like a real gun now,” said Mark.

“Put your finger on the touch-hole,” said Bevis. Mark did so, while he blew through the barrel.

“I can feel the air,” said Mark; “the barrel is clear. Shall I measure the powder?”

“Yes.”

Bevis shut the pan, Mark poured out the charge from the horn and inserted a wad of paper, which Bevis rammed home with the brass ramrod.

Bow-wow—bow-yow!

Up jumped Pan, leaped on them, tore round the hut, stood at the doorway and barked, ran a little way out, and came back again to the door, where, with his head over his shoulder, as if beckoning to them to follow, he barked his loudest.

“It’s the gun,” said Mark. Pan forgot his trouble at the sound of the ramrod.

Next the shot was put in, and then the priming at the pan. A piece of match or cord prepared to burn slowly, about a foot and a half long, was wound round the handle of the stock, and the end brought forward through the spiral of the hammer. Mark struck a match and lit it.

“What shall we shoot at?” said Bevis, as they went out at the door. Pan rushed before and disappeared in the bramble bushes, startling a pair of turtle-doves from a hawthorn.

“Parrakeets,” said Mark. “They’re smaller than parrots; you can’t shoot flying with a matchlock. There’s a beech; shoot at that.”

The sunshine fell on one side of the trunk of a beech, lighting up the smooth bark. They walked up till they thought they were near enough, and planted the staff or rest in the ground. Bevis put the matchlock on it, pushed the lid of the pan open with his thumb, and aimed at the tree. He pulled the trigger; the match descended on the powder in the pan, which went puff! The report followed directly.

“Never kicked a bit,” said Bevis, as the sulphury smoke rose; the barrel was too heavy to kick.

“Hit!” shouted Mark, who had run to the tree. “Forty dozen shots everywhere.”

Bevis came with the gun, and saw the bark dotted all over with shot. He measured the distance back to the rest left standing in the ground, by pacing steadily.

“Thirty-two yards.”

“My turn,” said Mark.

The explosion had extinguished the match, so shutting the pan-lid they loaded the gun again. Before Mark shot, Bevis went to the tree, and fastened a small piece of paper to the bark with a pin. Mark fired and put three shots through the paper. Pan raced and circled round to find the game, and returned with his back covered with cleavers which stuck to his coat. After shooting three times each they thought they would try bullets, but with ball they could do nothing. Four times they each fired at the beech and missed it, though every time they took a more careful aim.

“The staff’s too high,” said Mark, “I’m sure that’s it. We ought to kneel, then it would be steadier.”

Bevis cut the staff shorter, not without some difficulty, for the old black oak was hard like iron. The next was Mark’s turn. He knelt on one knee, aimed deliberately, and the ball scored the trunk, making a groove along the bark. Bevis tried but missed, so did Mark next time; then again Bevis fired, and missed.

“That’s enough,” said Bevis; “I shan’t have any more shooting with bullets.”

“But I hit it once.”

“But you didn’t hit it twice.”

“You never hit it once.”

“It wants a top-sight,” said Bevis, not very well pleased. “Nobody can shoot ball without a sight.”

“You can’t put one,” said Mark.

“I don’t know.” The sight was the only defect of the weapon; how to fasten that on they did not know.

“I hit it without a sight,” said Mark.

“Chance.”

“That it wasn’t.”

“It’s time to have dinner, I’m sure,” said Bevis. “The gun is to be put away now. I’ll take it in; you get some sticks for the fire.”

“O! very well,” said Mark shortly. “But there’s plenty of sticks inside the stockade!”

He followed Bevis and began to make a pile in their enclosed courtyard. Bevis having left the gun in the hut came out and helped him silently.

“It’s very hot here.”

“Awful!”

“Tropics.”

“The sun’s overhead.”

“Sun-stroke.”

“The fire ought to be made in the shadow.”

“There’s no shadow here.”

“Let us go into the wood then.”

“Very well—under the beech.”

They went out, and collected a heap of sticks in the shade of the beech at which they had been shooting. Mark lit the fire; Bevis sat down by the beech and watched the flame rise.

“Pot,” he said.

“Pot—what?” said Mark, still sulky.

“Fetch the water.”

“What?”

“Fetch the water.”

“O! I’m not Polly.”

“But I’m captain.”

“Hum!”

However, Mark fetched the pot, filled it at the shore, and presently came back with it, and put it on. Then he sat down too in the shade.

“You’ve not finished,” said Bevis.

“What else?”

“What else; why the bacon.”

“Get it yourself.”

“Aren’t you going?”

“No.”

Bevis went to the hut, cut off a slice of bacon, and put it on.

Mark went to the hut, fetched a handful of biscuits and two apples, and began to eat them.

“You never brought me any,” said Bevis.

“You never ordered me, captain.”

“Why can’t you be agreeable?”

“Why can’t you ask anybody, and do something yourself, too.”

“Don’t be a stupe,” said Bevis, “so I will. But get me a biscuit, now do.” At this Mark fetched the bag for him.

“We shall have to wait a long time for our dinner,” he said. “They’re just having a jolly one at home.”

“While they’re at home and comfortable we’re on an island seven thousand miles from anywhere.”

“Savages all round.”

“Magic things.”

“If they only knew, wouldn’t they be in a state.”

“Ships fitted out to find us. But they would not know which way to sail.”

“No charts.”

“Nothing.”

“Never find us. I say, get a fork and try the bacon.”

“Don’t look done.”

“Put some more sticks on. I say; we forgot the potatoes.”

“O! bother. It’s hot; don’t let’s have any. Let’s sit still.”

“Right.”

Pan looked from one to the other, ran round and came back, went into the underwood and came out again, but finding that it was of no use, and that the gun was really put aside, he presently settled down like them in the shade, and far enough from the fire not to feel any heat from it.

“Oaks are banyans, aren’t they?” said Mark. “They used to be, you know,” remembering the exploration of the wood.

“Banyans,” said Bevis.

“What are beeches?”

“O! teak.”

“That’s China; aren’t we far from China?”

“Ask me presently when I’ve got the astrolabe.”

“What are elms? Stop, now I remember; there are no elms!”

“How do you know?”

“Didn’t I go round the island one day? Besides, you could see them if there were, from the cliff.”

“So we could; there are no elms. That shows how different this country is from any other country ever found.”

“Poplars?” said Mark in an interrogative tone.

“Palms, of course. You can see them miles away like palms in a desert.”

“Pictures,” said Mark. “Yes, that’s it. You always see the sun going down, camels with long shadows, and palm-trees. Then I suppose it’s Africa?”

“You must wait till we have taken an observation. We shall see too by the stars.”

“Firs?” said Mark. “They’re cedars, of course.”

“Of course. Willows are blue gums.”

“Then it’s near Australia. I expect it is; because, don’t you know, there were no animals in Australia except kangaroos, and there are none here at all. So it’s that sort of country.”

“But there are tigers in the reeds.”

“Ah, I forgot them.”

“Huge boa-constrictors. One of them would reach from here to Serendib. Did you hear that rustling? Most likely that was one.”

“Do elephants swim? They might come off here.”

“Hippopotami.”

“A black rhinoceros; they’re rogues.”

“Hyenas.”

“Giraffes. They can nibble half-way up the palm-trees.”

“Pumas.”

“Panthers.”

“’Possums.”

“Yaks.”

“Grizzlies.”

“Scorpions.”

“Heaps of things on your bed and crawling on the ceiling.”

“Jolly!”

“Fork up the bacon.”

Mark forked it up.

“It looks queer,” he said, dropping it in again. “Ought the pot to be on the ashes?”

“There’s an iron rod for the kettle to swing on,” said Bevis. “It’s somewhere in the store-room. Is it eight bells yet?”

“I expect so,” said Mark. “Rations are late. A mutton chop now, or a fowl—”

“Don’t grow here,” said Bevis. “You cut steaks from buffaloes while they’re alive, or fry elephants, or boil turkeys. There are no fowls.”

“It seems to me,” said Mark, “that we ought to have the gun here. Suppose some savages were to land from canoes and get between us and the hut? It’s twenty yards to the stockade; more I should think.”

“I never thought of that,” said Bevis. “There may be fifty canoes full of them in the reeds, and proas flying here almost. Fetch the gun—quick.”

Mark ran and brought it.

“Load with ball,” said Bevis.

The ball was rammed home. Pan set up a joyous bark.

“Kick him,” said Bevis, languidly raising himself on one arm. He had been lying on his back. “He’ll bring the savages, or the crocodiles.”

Pan was kicked, and crouched.

Mark leaned the gun against the teak-tree, and sat down again.

“Awfully hot,” he said.

“Always is in the tropics.”

“Ought to have an awning,” said Mark; “and hammocks.”

“So we did,” said Bevis, sitting up. “How stupid to forget the hammocks. Did you ever see anything like it?”

“We can make an awning,” said Mark. “Hang up one of the rugs by the four corners.”

“Capital. Come on.”

They fastened four pieces of cord to the corners of the rug, but found that the trees did not grow close enough together, so they had to set up two poles near the teak, and tie the cords at one end of the rug to these. The others were tied to a branch of the teak. By the time this was done they had worked themselves hot again putting up the awning to get cool. There was not a breath of wind, and it was very warm even in the double shadow of the teak and the awning.

“Bacon must be done,” said Bevis.

“Must,” said Mark.

They could not rest more than a quarter of an hour. They forked it out, and Mark held it on the fork, while Bevis ran to the hut for a piece of board to put it on, as they had forgotten dishes. Setting the bacon on the board, they put it on the ground under the awning (Pan wanted to sniff at it), and tried a slice. It was not exactly nice, nor disagreeable, considering that they had forgotten to scrape it, or take the rind off. But biscuits were not so good as bread.

“We must make some dampers,” said Mark; “you know, flour cakes: we can’t bake, we haven’t got an oven.”

“Dampers are proper,” said Bevis. “That’s gold-mining. Very likely there are heaps of nuggets here somewhere—”

“Placers.”

“And gold-dust in the river.”

“No mustard. And I recollected the salt!” said Mark. “I say; is this bacon quite nice?”

“Well, no; not quite.”

“I don’t like it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Wish we could have brought some meat.”

“Can’t keep meat under the tropics.”

“Shall we chuck it to Pan?”

“No, not all. Here, give him a slice. Pooh! He sniff’s at it. Just see! He’s pampered; he won’t eat it. Here, take the board, Mark, and put it in the store-room.”

Mark took the board with the bacon on it; and went to the hut. He came back with a mug full of ale, saying they had better drink it before it got quite stale.

“We must shoot something,” said Bevis. “We can’t eat much of that stuff.”

“Let’s go round the island,” said Mark, “and see if there’s anything about. Parrots, perhaps.”

“Pigeon-pie,” said Bevis.

“Parrot-pie; just the thing.”

“Hammer Pan, or he’ll run on first and spoil everything.”

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

New Formosa—First Day.

Bevis lit the match, and they went quietly into the wood. Pan had to he hammered now and then to restrain him from rushing into the brambles. They knew the way now very well, having often walked round while building the hut looking for poles, and had trampled out a rough path winding about the thorns. The shooting at the teak-tree and the noise of Pan’s barking had alarmed all the parrots; and though they looked out over the water in several places, no wild-fowl were to be seen.

As they came round under the group of cedars to the other side of the island Mark remembered the great jack or pike which he had seen there, almost as big as a shark. They went very softly, and peering round a blue gum bush, saw the jack basking in the sun, but a good way from shore, just at the edge of some weeds. The sunshine illumined the still water, and they could see him perfectly, his long cruel jaws, his greenish back and white belly, and powerful tail.

Drawing back behind the blue gum, Bevis prepared the matchlock, blow the match so that the fire might be ready on it, opened the pan, and pushed the priming up to the touch-hole, from which it had been shaken as he walked, and then advanced the staff or rest to the edge of the bush. He put the heavy barrel on it, and knelt down. The muzzle of the long matchlock protruded through the leafy boughs.

“Ball cartridge,” whispered Mark, holding Pan by the collar. “Steady.”

“All right.”

Bevis aimed up the barrel, the strands of wire rather interfered with his aim, and the glance passed from one of these to the other, rather than along the level of the barrel. The last strand hid the end of the barrel altogether. It wanted a sight. He looked along, and got the gun straight for the fish, aiming at the broadest part of the side; then he remembered that a fish is really lower in the water than it appears, and depressed the muzzle till it pointed beneath the under-line of the jack.

Double-barrel guns with their hammers which fall in the fiftieth of a second, driven by a strong spring directly the finger touches the trigger, translate the will into instant action. The gunner snatches the second when his gun is absolutely straight, and the shot flies to its destination before the barrel can deviate the thirty-second part of an inch. When Bevis’s finger first pressed the trigger of the matchlock he had the barrel of his gun accurately pointed. But while he pulled the match down to the pan an appreciable moment of time intervened; and his mind too—so swift is its operation—left the fish, his mark and object, and became expectant of the explosion. The match touched the priming. Puff!

So infinitely rapid is the mind, so far does it outstrip gunpowder, that the flash from the pan and its tiny smoke seemed to Bevis to occur quite a little time before the great discharge, and in that little time his mind left the barrel, and came to look at the tiny puff of smoke.

Bang! the ball rushed forth, but not now in the course it would have taken had a hair-trigger and a spring instantly translated his original will into action. In these momentary divisions of time which had elapsed since he settled his aim, the long barrel, resting on the staff and moving easily on its pivot, had imperceptibly drooped a trifle at the breech and risen as much at the muzzle.

The ball flew high, hit the water six inches beyond the fish, and fired at so low an angle ricochetted, and went skipping along the surface, cutting out pieces of weed till the friction dragged it under, and it sank. The fish swished his tail like a scull at the stern of a boat or the screw of a steamer, but swift as was his spring forward, he would not have escaped had not the ball gone high. He left an undulation on the surface as he dived unhurt.

Bevis stamped his foot to think he had missed again.

“It was the water,” said Mark. “The bullet went duck and drake; I saw it.”

He was too just to recall the fact of his having hit the teak-tree, the tree was so much larger than the fish. As he did not recall his success at the tree, Bevis’s irritation went no farther.

“We must have a top-sight,” he said.

“We won’t use bullets again till we have a sight.”

“No, we won’t. But I’m sure I had the gun straight.”

“So we had the rifle straight, but it did not hit.”

“No, no more did it. There’s something peculiar in bullets—we will find out. I wanted that jack for supper.”

As they had not brought the powder-horn with them, they walked back to the hut.

“It’s not the gun’s fault, I’m sure,” said Mark. “It shoots beautiful; it’s my turn next.”

“Yes; you shall shoot. O! no, it’s not the gun. They can shoot sparrows in India with a single ball,” said Bevis; “and matchlocks kill tigers better than rifles. Matchlocks are splendid things.”

“Splendid things,” said Mark, stroking the stock of the gun, which he now carried on his shoulder, as if it had been a breathing pet that could appreciate his affection.

“This is a curious groove,” said Bevis, looking at the score in the bark of the teak where Mark’s bullet had struck it. “Look, it goes a little round; the bullet stuck to the tree and went a little way round, instead of just coming straight, so.”

“So it did,” said Mark. “It curved round the tree.”

“My arrow would have glanced off just the other way,” said Bevis, “if it had hit here.”

“The ball goes one way and the arrow the other.”

“One sticks to the tree as long as it can and the other shoots aside directly.”

Bullets have been known in like manner to strike a man’s head in the front part and score a track half round it, and even then not do much injury.

“We ought to keep the gun loaded,” said Mark, as they reached the hut.

“Yes; but it ought to be slung up, and not put anywhere where it might be knocked over.”

“Let’s make some slings for it.”

After loading the gun this time with a charge of shot, and ramming it home with the brass ramrod—Mark enjoyed using the ramrod too much to hurry over it—they set to work and drove two stout nails into the uprights on the opposite side to the bed. To one of these nails a loop of cord was fastened; to the other a similar piece was tied at one end, the other had a lesser loop, so as to take on or off the nail. When off it hung down, when on it made a loop like the other. The barrel of the gun was put through the first loop, and the stock then held up while the other piece of cord was hitched to its nail, when the long gun hung suspended.

“It looks like a hunter’s hut now,” said Bevis, contemplating the matchlock. “I’ll put my bow in the corner.” He leaned his bow in the corner, and put a sheaf of arrows by it.

“My spear will go here,” said Mark.

“No,” said Bevis. “Put the spear by the bed-head.”

“Ready for use in the night?”

“Yes; put a knobstick too. That’s it. Now look.”

“Doesn’t it look nice?”

“Just doesn’t it!”

“Real hunting.”

“Real as real.”

“If Val, and Cecil, and Ted could see!”

“And Charlie.”

“They would go wild.”

“The store-room is a muddle.”

“Shall we put it straight?”

“And get things ship-shape?”

“Yes.”

They began to assort the heaped-up mass of things in the cave, putting tools on one side, provisions on the other, and odd things in the centre. After awhile Mark looked up at his watch.

“Why, it’s past five! Tea time at home.”

“I don’t know,” said Bevis. “I expect the time’s different—it’s longitude.”

“We are hours later, then?”

“While it’s tea time here, it’s breakfast there.”

“When we go to bed, they get up. Here’s the astrolabe. Take the observation.”

“So I will.”

The sun was lower now, just over the tops of the trees. Bevis hung the circle to the gate-post of the stockade and moved the tube till he could see the sun through it. It read 20 degrees on the graduated disc.

“Twenty degrees north latitude,” he said. “It’s not on the equator.”

“But it’s in the tropics.”

“O, yes!—it’s in Cancer, right enough. It’s better than the Equator: they are obliged to lie still there all day long; and it’s all swamps and steaming moisture and fevers and malaria.”

“Much nicer here.”

“O! Much nicer.”

“How lucky! This island is put just right.”

“The very spot!”

“There ought to be a ditch outside the palisade,” said Mark. “Like they have outside tents to run the water away when it rains. I’ve seen them round tents.”

“So there ought. We’ll dig it.”

They fetched the spades and shovelled away half an hour, but it was very warm, and they sat down presently inside the fence, which began to cast a shadow.

“We ought to have some blacks to do this sort of work,” said Mark.

“White people can’t slave in the tropics,” said Bevis. “Let’s do nothing now for a while.”

“Lemonade,” said Mark. Bevis nodded; and Mark fetched and opened a bottle, then another.

“There are only four left,” he said.

“A ship ought to come every year with these kind of things,” said Bevis.

“It ought to be wrecked, and then we could get the best things from the wreck. Shall we do some more shooting?”

“Practising. We ought to practise with ball; but we said we would not till we had a sight.”

“But it’s loaded with shot, and it’s my turn; and there’s nothing for supper, or dinner to-morrow.”

“No more there is. One thing, though, if we practise shooting, we shall frighten all the birds away.”

“Ducks,” said Mark, “flappers and coots, and moorhens, they’re all about in the evening. The sun’s going down: let’s shoot one.”

“Very well.”

Mark got down the matchlock, and lit the match. He went first, and Bevis followed, two or three yards behind, with Pan. They walked as quietly as possible along the path they had made round the island, glancing out over the water at intervals. As they approached the other end of the island, where the ground was low and thick with reed-grass and sedges, they moved still more gently. They saw two young ducks, but they were too far; and whether they heard or suspected something swam in among a bed of rushes on a shoal. Mark stooped, and went down to the water’s edge. Bevis stooped and followed, and there they set up the gun on the rest, hidden behind the fringe of sedges and reed-grass they had left when cutting them for the roof.

The muzzle almost, but not quite, protruded through the sedges, and they sat down to wait on some of the dry grasses they had reaped, but did not carry, not requiring all they had cut. The ground so near the edge was soft and yielding, and this dry hay of sedge and flag better to sit on. Bevis held Pan by the collar, and they waited a long time while the sun sank to the north-westwards, almost in front, of them.

“No twilight in the tropics,” whispered Mark.

“But there’s the moon,” said Bevis. The moon being about half full, was already high in the sky, and her light continued the glow of the sunset. Restless as they were, they sat still, and took the greatest care in slightly changing their positions for ease not to rustle the dry sedges. Pan did not like it, but he reconciled himself after awhile. Presently Mark, who was nearest the standing sedges, leaned forward and moved the gun, Bevis glanced over his shoulder and saw a young wild duck among the weeds by the shoal. “Too far,” he whispered. It looked a long way. Mark did not answer; he was aiming. Puff—bang! Bow-wow! Pan was in the water, dashing through the smoke before they could tell whether the shot had taken effect or not. The next moment they saw the duck struggling and splashing unable to dive. “Lu—lu!”

“Go on, Pan!”

“Catch him!”

“Fetch him!”

“He’s got him!”

“He’s in the weeds.”

“Look—he can’t get back—the duck drags in the weeds.”

“Pan! Pan! Here—here!”

“He can’t do it.”

“He’s caught.”

“He’ll sink.”

“Not he.”

“But he will.”

“No.”

After striving his hardest to bring the duck back through the thick weeds, Pan suddenly turned and swam to the shoal where the rushes grew. There he landed and stood a moment with the duck’s neck in his mouth: the bird still flapped and struggled.

“Here—here!” shouted Bevis, running along to attract the spaniel to a place where the weeds looked thinner. Mark whistled: Pan plunged in again; and this time, having learned the strength of the weeds, he swam out round them and laid the bird at their feet.

“It’s a beauty.”

“Look at his webbed feet!”

“But he’s not very big!”

“But he’s a young one.”

“Of course: the feathers are very pretty.”

“He kicks still.”

“Kill him. There; now we must pluck him this evening. Some of the feathers will do for Frances.”

“O! Frances! She’s no use,” said Mark, carrying his bird by the legs.

The head hung down, and Pan licked it. Plucking they found a tedious business. Each tried in turn till they were tired, and still there seemed no end to the feathers.

“There are thousands of them,” said Bevis.

“Just as if they could not have a skin.”

“But the feathers are prettier.”

“Well, you try now.”

Bevis plucked awhile. Then Mark tried again. This was in the courtyard of the hut. The moonlight had now quite succeeded to the day. By the watch it was past nine. Out of doors it was light, but in the hut Bevis had to strike a match to see the time.

“It’s supper-time,” he said.

“Now they are having breakfast at home, I suppose.”

“I dare say we’re quite forgotten,” said Bevis. “People always are. Seven thousand miles away they’re sure to forget us.”

“Altogether,” said Mark. “Of course they will. Then some day they’ll see two strange men with very long beards and bronzed faces.”

“Broad-brimmed Panama hats.”

“And odd digger-looking dresses.”

“And revolvers in their pockets out of sight, come strolling up to the door and ask for—”

“Glasses of milk, as they’re thirsty, and while they’re sipping—as they don’t really like such stuff—just ask quietly if the governor’s alive and kicking—”

“And the Jolly Old Moke asleep in his armchair—”

“And if mamma’s put up the new red curtains.”

“Then they’ll stare—and shriek—”

“Recognise and rumpus.”

“Huge jollification!”

“Everybody tipsy and happy.”

“John Young tumbling in the pond.”

“Bells ringing.”

“I say, ought we to forgive the Bailiff and Polly?”

“Hum! I suppose so. But that’s a very long time yet?”

“O! a very long time. This duck will never be done.”

“We forgot to have tea,” said Mark.

“So we did; and tea would be very nice. With dampers like the diggers,” said Bevis. “Let’s have tea now.”

“Finish the horrid duck to-morrow,” said Mark. “I’ll hang him up.”

“Fire’s gone out,” said Bevis, looking from the gateway. “Can’t see any sparks.”

“Gone out long ago,” said Mark. “Pot put it out.”

They had left the pot on the ashes.

“It would be a good plan to light a fire inside the stockade now,” said Bevis. “It will do to make the tea, and keep things away in the night.”

“Lions and tigers,” said Mark. “If they want to jump the fence they won’t dare face the fire. But it’s very warm; we must not make it by the hut.”

“Put it on one side,” said Bevis, “in the corner under the cliff. Bring the sticks.”

They had plenty of wood in the stockade, piled up, from the chips and branches and ends of the poles with which they had made the roof and fence. The fire was soon lit. Bevis got out the iron rod to swing the kettle. Mark went down and dipped the zinc bucket full of water.

“Are there any things about over the New Sea?” he said when he came back. “It’s dark as you go through the wood, and the water looks all strange by moonlight.”

“Very curious things are about I dare say,” said Bevis, who had lit the lantern, and was shaking tea into the tin teapot in the hut. “Curious magic things.”

“Floating round; all misty, and you can’t see them.”

“But you know they’re there.”

“Genii.”

“Ghouls.”

“Vampires. Look, there’s a big bat—and another; they’re coming back again.”

“That’s nothing; everything’s magic. Mice are magic, especially if they’re red. I’ll show you in Faust. If they’re only dun they’re not half so much magic.”

“More mousey.”

“Yes. Besides, if you were in the wood you would see things behind the trees; you might think they were shadows, but they’re not: and lights moving about—sparks—”

“Magic?”

“Magic. Stars are magic. There’s one up there. And there are things in trees, and satyrs in the fern, and those that come out of the trees and out of the water are ladies—very beautiful, like Frances—”

“Frances is very plain.”

“That she’s not.”

“She’s so short.”

“Well, the tree-ladies are not very large. If I had a book of secret lore, that’s the right name—”

“A magic book?”

“I’d make them come and dance and sing to us.”

“But are there no monsters?” said Mark, stirring the fire.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

New Formosa—Morning in the Tropics.

The flames darted up, and mingling with the moonlight cast a reddish-yellow glare on the green-roofed hut, the yellowy cliff of sand, throwing their shadows on the fence, and illuming Pan, who sat at the door of the hut. The lantern, which Bevis had left on the floor, was just behind the spaniel. Outside the stockade the trees of the wood cast shadows towards them; the moon shone high in the sky. The weird calls of water-fowl came from a distance; the sticks crackled and hissed. Else all was silent, and the smoke rose straight into the still air.

“Green eyes glaring at you in the black wood,” said Bevis. “Huge creatures, with prickles on their backs, and stings: the ground heaves underneath, and up they come; one claw first—you see it poking through a chink—and then hot poisonous breath—”

“Let’s make a circle,” said Mark. “Quick! Let’s lock the gate.”

“Lock the gate!” Mark padlocked it. “I’ll mark the wizard’s foot on it. There,”—Bevis drew the five-angled mark with his pencil on the boards—“there, now they’re just done.”

“They can’t come in.”

“No.”

“But we might see them?”

“Perhaps, yes.”

“Let’s play cards, and not look round.”

“All right. Bezique. But the kettle’s boiling. I’ll make the tea.” He took the kettle off and filled the teapot. “We ought to have a damper,” he said.

“So we did: I’ll make it.” Mark went into the hut and got some flour, and set to work and made a paste: you see, if you are busy, you do not know about things that look like shadows, but are not shadows. He pounded away at the paste; and after some time produced a thick flat cake of dough, which they put in the ashes and covered over.

They put two boards for a table on the ground, in front of the hut door and away from the fire, and set the lantern at one end of the table. Bevis brought the teapot and the tin mugs, for they had forgotten cups and saucers, and made tea; while Mark buttered a heap of biscuits.

“Load the matchlock,” said Bevis. Mark loaded the gun, and leaned it by the door-post at their backs, but within reach. Bevis put his bow and two arrows close at his side, as he sat down, because he could shoot quicker with his bow in case of a sudden surprise, than with the matchlock. The condensed milk took a few minutes to get ready, and then they began. The corner of the hut kept off the glow from the fire; they leaned their backs against the door-posts, one each side, and Pan came in between. He gobbled up the buttered biscuits, being perfectly civilised; now from one, now from the other, as fast as they liked to let him.

“This is the jolliest tea there ever was,” said Mark. “Isn’t it jolly to be seven thousand miles from anywhere?”

“No bothers,” said Bevis, waving his hand as if to keep people at a distance.

“Nothing but niceness.”

“And do as you please.”

“Had enough?”

“Yes. Bezique.”

“I’ll deal.”

“No—no; cut.”

The cards were dealt on the two rough boards, and they played, using the old coins they had brought with them as counters. Pan watched a little while, then he retired, finding there was nothing more to eat, and stretched himself a few yards away. The fire fell lower, flickered, blazed again: the last sticks thrown on burning off in the middle broke and half rolled off one side and half the other; the smoke ceased to rise, the heated vapour which took its place was not visible. By-and-by the moon’s white light alone filled the interior of the stockade, and entered in at the doorway of the hut, for the glimmer of the horn-lantern did not reach beyond the boards of their tables. At last the candle guttered and went out, but they played on by the moonlight.

“Ah, ah!” said Bevis presently.

“Double bezique!” shouted Mark; “and all the money’s mine!”

Pan looked up at the noise.

“The proper thing is, to shoot you under the table,” said Bevis: “that’s what buccaneers do.”

“But there were no revolvers when we lived,” said Mark; “only matchlocks.”

“Shovel them up,” said Bevis. “Broad gold pieces, but you won’t have them long. I’m tired to-night. I shall win them to-morrow, and your estate, and your watch, and your shirt off your back, and your wife—”

“I shan’t have a wife,” said Mark, yawning as he pocketed the coins, which were copper. “I don’t want a Frances—O, no! thank you very much!”

“What’s the time?”

“Nearly twelve.”

“I’m tired.”

“Make the bed.”

They began to make it, and recollected that one of the rugs was under the teak-tree, where they had hoisted it up for an awning. Bevis took his bow and arrow; Mark his spear. They called Pan, and thus, well armed and ready for the monsters, marched across to the teak, glancing fearfully around, expectant of green blazing eyes and awful coiling shapes; quite fearless all the time, and aware that there was nothing. They had to pull up the poles to get the awning down. On returning to the stockade, the gate was padlocked and the bed finished. The lantern, in which a fresh candle had been placed, was hung to a cord from the ceiling, but they found it much in the way.

“If there’s an alarm in the night,” said Mark, “and anybody jumps up quick, he’ll hit his head against the lantern. Let’s put it on the box.”

“Chest,” said Bevis; “it’s always chest.”

Mark dragged the chest to the bed-side, and put the lantern on it, and a box of matches handy. The matchlock was hung up; the teapot and mugs and things put away, and the spear and bow and knobstick arranged for instant use. Bevis let down the carpet at the doorway, and it shut out the moonlight like a curtain. They took off their boots and got on the bed with their clothes on. Just as Bevis was about to blow out the candle, he remembered something.

“Mark—Lieutenant, how’s the barometer?”

“Went down in the ship, sir.”

“How’s the weather then? Look out and see if a tornado’s brewing.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

Mark stepped under the curtain, looked round, and came in again.

“Sky’s clear,” he said. “Only the moon and a little shooting star, a very little one, a mere flicker just like striking a lucifer when it doesn’t light.”

“Streak of light on the wall.”

“Yes.”

“No tornado?”

“No.”

“Thirty bells,” said the captain. “Turn in. Lights out.” He blew out the candle and they made themselves comfortable.

“What’s that?” said Mark in a minute. A corner of the curtain was lifted, and let the moonlight in on the floor.

“Only Pan.”

Finding he was alone outside, Pan came in and curled up by the chest.

“Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

“Good-night, Pan,” said Bevis, putting out his hand and touching Pan’s rough neck. Almost before he could bring his hand back again they were both firm asleep. Quite tired out by such a long, long day of exertion and change, they fell asleep in a second, without any twilight of preliminary drowsiness. Change wearies as much as labour; a journey, for instance, or looking up at rows of pictures in different colours. They slept like buccaneers or humming-tops, only unconsciously throwing the covering rug partly off, for the summer night was warm. The continuance of easterly breezes had caused the atmosphere to become so dry that there was no mist, and the morning opened clear, still, and bright.

After a while Pan stretched himself, got up, and went out. He could not leap the fence, but looking round it found a place where it joined the cliff, not quite closed up. They knew this, but had forgotten all about it. Pan pushed his head under, struggled, and scratched, till his shoulders followed as he lay on his side, and the rest followed easily. Roaming round, he saw the pot in which the bacon had been boiled still on the grey ashes of the fire under the teak. The lid was off, thrown aside, and he ran to the pot, put his paws on the rim, and lapped up the greasy liquor with a relish.

Loo, the cottage girl, could she have seen, would have envied him, for she had but a dry crust for breakfast, and would have eagerly dipped it in. Pan roamed round again, and came back to the hut and waited. In an hour’s time he went out once more, lapped again, and again returned to watch the sleepers.

By-and-by he went out the third time and stayed longer. Then he returned, thrust his head under the curtain and uttered a short bark of impatient questioning, “Yap!”

“The genie,” said Mark, awaking. He had been dreaming.

“What’s the time?” said Bevis, sitting up in an instant, as if he had never been asleep. Pan leaped on the bed and barked, delighted to see them moving.

“Three o’clock,” said Mark. “No; why it’s stopped!”

“It’s late, I know,” said Bevis, who had gone to the doorway and lifted the curtain. “The sun’s high; it’s eight or nine, or more.”

“I never wound it up,” said Mark, “and—well I never! I’ve left the key at home.”

“It was my key,” said Bevis. One did for both in fact.

“Now we shan’t know what the time is,” said Mark. “Awfully awkward when you’re seven thousand miles from anywhere.”

“Awful! What a stupe you were; where did you leave the key?”

“On the dressing-table, I think; no, in the drawer. Let’s see, in my other waistcoat: I saw it on the floor; now I remember, on the mantelpiece, or else on the washing-stand. I know, Bevis; make a sundial!”

“So I will. No, it’s no use.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know when to begin.”

“When to begin?”

“Well the sundial must have a start. You must begin your hours, don’t you see.”

“I see; you don’t know what hour to put to the shadow.”

“That’s it.”

“But can’t you find out? Isn’t the sun always south at noon?”

“But which is quite south?”

“Just exactly proper south?”

“Yes, meridian is the name. I know, the north star!”

“Then we must wait till night to know the time to-day.”

“And then till the sun shines again—”

“Till to-morrow.”

“Yes.”

“I know!” said Mark; “Charlie. You make the sundial, and he’ll wave the handkerchief at four o’clock.”

“Capital,” said Bevis. “Just the very thing—like Jupiter’s satellites; you know, they hide behind, and the people know the time by seeing them. Charlie will set the clock for us. There’s always a dodge for everything. Pan, Pan, you old rascal.”

Bevis rolled him over and over. Pan barked and leaped on them, and ran out into the sunshine.

“Breakfast,” said Mark; “what’s for breakfast?”

“Well, make some tea,” said Bevis, putting on his boots. “That was best. And, I say, we forgot the damper.”

“So we did. It will do for breakfast.”

The damper was raked out of the ashes, and having been left to itself was found to be well done, but rather burned on one side. When the burnt part had been scraped off, and the ashes blown from it, it tasted very fair, but extremely dry.

“The butter won’t last long,” said Mark presently, as they sat down to breakfast on the ground at their two boards. “We ought to have another shipload.”

“Tables without legs are awkward,” said Bevis, whose face was heated from tending the fire they had lit and boiling the kettle. “The difficulty is, where to put your knees.”

“Or else you must lie down. We could easily make some legs.”

“Drive short stakes into the ground, and put the boards on the top,” said Bevis. “So we will presently. The table ought to be a little one side of the doorway, as we can’t wheel it along out of the way.”

“Big stumps of logs would do for stools,” said Mark. “Saw them off short, and stand them on end.”

“The sun’s very warm,” said Bevis.

The morning sunshine looked down into their courtyard, so that they had not the least shade.

“The awning ought to be put up here over our table.”

“Let’s put it up, then. I say, how rough your hair looks.”

“Well, you look as if you had not washed. Shall we go and have a swim?”

“Yes. Put the things away; here’s the towels.”

They replaced their breakfast things anywhere, leaving the teapot on the bed, and went down to the water, choosing the shore opposite Serendib, because on that side there were no weeds.

As they came down to the strand, already tearing off their coats, they stopped to look at the New Sea, which was still, smooth, and sunlit. Though it was so broad it did not seem far to-day to the yellow cliff of the quarry, to the sward of the battlefield, and the massive heads of the sycamores under which the war had raged.

There was not a breath of wind, but the passage of so much air coming from the eastwards during the last week or so had left the atmosphere as clear as it is in periods of rain. The immense sycamores stood out against the sky, with the broad green curve of their tops drawn along the blue. Except a shimmer of uncertain yellow at the distant shore they could not see the reflection of the quarry which was really there, for the line of vision from where they stood came nearly level with the surface of the water, so that they did not look into it but along it.

Beneath their feet they saw to the bottom of the New Sea, and slender shapes of fish hovering over interstices of stones, now here, now gone. There was nothing between them and the fish, any more than while looking at a tree. The mere surface was a film transparent, and beneath there seemed nothing. Across on Serendib the boughs dipped to the boughs that came up under to meet them. A moorhen swam, and her imago followed beneath, unbroken, so gently did she part the water that no ripple confused it. Farther the woods of the jungle far away rose up, a mountain wall of still boughs, mingled by distance into one vast thicket.

Southwards, looking seawards, instead of the long path of gold which wavelets strew before him, the sun beamed in the water, throwing a stream of light on their faces, not to be looked at any more than the fire which Archimedes cast from his mirrors melting the ships. All the light of summer fell on the water, from the glowing sky, from the clear air, from the sun. The island floated in light, they stood in light, light was in the shadow of the trees, and under the thick brambles; light was deep down in the water, light surrounded them as a mist might; they could see far up into the illumined sky as down into the water.

The leaves with light under them as well as above became films of transparent green, the delicate branches were delineated with finest camel’s hair point, all the grass blades heaped together were apart, and their edges apparent in the thick confusion; every atom of sand upon the shore was sought out by the beams, and given an individual existence amid the inconceivable multitude which the sibyl alone counted. Nothing was lost, not a grain of sand, not the least needle of fir. The light touched all things, and gave them to be.

The tip of the shimmering poplar had no more of it than the moss in the covert of the bulging roots. The swallows flew in light, the fish swam in light, the trees stood in light. Upon the shore they breathed light, and were silent till a white butterfly came fluttering over, and another white butterfly came under it in the water, when looking at it the particular released them from the power of the general.

“Magic,” said Bevis. “It’s magic.”

“Enchantment,” said Mark; “who is it does it—the old magician?”

“I think the book says its Circe,” said Bevis; “in the Ulysses book, I mean. It’s deep enough to dive here.”

In a minute he was ready, and darted into the water like an arrow, and was sent up again as an arrow glances to the surface. Throwing himself on his side he shot along. “Serendib!” he shouted, as Mark appeared after his dive under.

“Too far,” said Mark.

“Come on.”

Mark came on. The water did not seem to resist them that morning, it parted and let them through. With long scoops of their arms that were uppermost, swimming on the side, they slipped on still between the strokes, the impetus carrying them till the stroke came again. Between the strokes they glided buoyantly, lifted by the water as swallows glide on the plane of the air. From the hand thrust out in front beyond the head to the feet presently striking back—all the space between the hands and feet they seemed to grasp. All this portion of the water was in their power, and its elasticity as their strokes compressed it threw them forward.

At each long sweep Bevis felt a stronger hold, his head shot farther through above the surface like the stem of the Pinta when the freshening breeze drove her. He did not see where he was going, his vision was lost in the ecstasy of motion; all his mind was concentrated in the full use of his limbs. The delicious delirium of strength—unconsciousness of reason, unlimited consciousness of force—the joy of life itself filled him.

Presently turning on his chest for the breast-stroke he struck his knee, and immediately stood up:

“Mark!”

Fortunately there were no stones, or his knee would have been grazed; the bottom was sand. Hearing him call Mark turned on his chest and stood up too. They waded some way, and then found another deep place, swam across that more carefully, and again walked on a shallow which continued to the shore of Serendib, where they stood by the willow boughs.

“Pan!”

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

New Formosa—Planning the Raft.

Pan had sat on the strand watching them till they appeared about to land on the other side, then at the sound of his name he swam to them. Now you might see how superior he was, for the two human animals stood there afraid to enter the island lest a rough bough should abrade their skins, a thorn lacerate, or a thistle prick their feet, but Pan no sooner reached the land than he rushed in. His shaggy natural coat protected him.

In a minute out came a moorhen, then another, and a third, scuttling over the surface with their legs hanging down. Two minutes more and Pan drove a coot out, then a young duck rose and flew some distance, then a dab-chick rushed out and dived instantaneously, then still more moorhens, and coots.

“Why, there are hundreds!” said Mark. “What a place for our shooting!”

“First-rate,” said Bevis. “It’s full of moorhens and all sorts.”

So it was. The island of Serendib was but a foot or so above the level of the water, and completely grown over with willow osiers (their blue gum), the spaces between the stoles being choked with sedges and reed-grass, vast wild parsnip stalks or “gix,” and rushes, in which mass of vegetation the water-fowl delighted. They had been undisturbed for a very long time, and they looked on Serendib as theirs; they would not move till Pan was in the midst of them.

“We must bring the matchlock,” said Mark. “But we can’t swim with it. Could we do it on the catamarans?”

“They’re awkward if you’ve got anything to carry,” said Bevis, remembering his dip. “I know—we’ll make a raft.”

“Then we can go to all the islands,” said Mark, “that will be ever so much better; why we can shoot all round them everywhere.”

“And go up the river,” said Bevis, “and go on the continent, the mainland, you know, and see if it’s China, or South America—”

“Or Africa or Australia, and shoot elephants—”

“And rabbits and hares and peewits, and pick up the pearls on Pearl Island, and see what there is at the other end of the world up there,” pointing southwards.

“We’ve never been to the end yet,” said Mark. “Let’s go back and make the raft directly.”

“The catamaran planks will do capital,” said Bevis, “and some beams, and I’ll see how Ulysses made his, and make ours like it—he had a sail somehow.”

“We could sail about at night,” said Mark, “nobody would see us.”

“No; Val or Charlie would be sure to see in the daytime; the stars would guide us at night, and that would be just proper.”

“Just like they used to—”

“Yes, just like they used to when we lived three thousand years ago.”

“Capital. Let’s begin.”

“So we will.”

“Pan! Pan!”

Pan was so busy routing out the hitherto happy water-fowl that he did not follow them until they had begun to swim, having waded as far as they could. The shoals reduced the actual distance they had to swim by quite half, so that they reached New Formosa without any trouble, and dressed. They went to the hut that Bevis might read how Ulysses constructed his ship or raft, and while they were looking for the book saw the duck which they had plucked the evening before.

This put them in mind of dinner, and that if they did not cook it, it would not be ready for them as it used to be at home. They were inclined to let dinner take its chance, but buttered biscuits were rather wearisome, so they concluded to cook the dinner first, and make the raft afterwards. It was now very hot in the stockade, so the fire was lit under the teak-tree in the shade, the duck singed, and hung on a double string from a hazel rod stuck in the ground. By turning it round the double string would wind up, and when left to itself unwind like a roasting-jack.

The heat of the huge fire they made, added to that of the summer sun, was too great—they could not approach it, and therefore managed to turn the duck after a fashion with a long stick. After they had done this some time, working in their shirtsleeves, they became impatient, and on the eve of quarrelling from mere restlessness.

“It’s no use our both being here,” said Mark. “One’s enough to cook.”

“One’s enough to be cooked,” said Bevis. “Cooking is the most hateful thing I ever knew.”

“Most awful hateful. Suppose we say you shall do it to-day and I do it to-morrow, instead of being both stuck here by this fire?”

“Why shouldn’t you do it to-day, and I do it to-morrow?”

“Toss up, then,” said Mark, producing a penny. “Best two out of three.”

“O! no,” said Bevis. “You know too many penny dodges. No, no; I know—get the cards, shuffle them and cut, and who cuts highest goes off and does as he likes—”

“Ace highest?”

“Ace.”

The pack was shuffled, and Mark cut a king. Bevis did not got a picture-card, so he was cook for that day.

“I shall take the matchlock,” said Mark.

“That you won’t.”

“That I shall.”

“You won’t, though.”

“Then I won’t do anything,” said Mark, sulking. “It’s not fair; if you had cut king you would have had the gun.”

Bevis turned his duck, poking it round with the stick, then he could not help admitting to himself that Mark was right. If he had cut a king he would have taken the gun, and it was not fair that Mark should not do so.

“Very well,” he said. “Take it; mind it’s my turn to-morrow.”

Mark went for the matchlock, and came out of the stockade with it. But before he had gone many yards he returned into the hut, and put it up on the slings. Then he picked out his fishing-rod from the store-room, and his perch-line and hooks, mixed some mustard and water in his tin mug, and started off. Bevis, who had sat down far enough from the fire to escape the heat, did not notice him the second time.

Mark walked into the wood till he found a moist place, there he poured his mixture on the ground, and the pungent mustard soon brought some worms up. These he secured, but he did not know how to carry them, for the mug he used for drinking from, and did not like to put them in it. Involuntarily feeling his pockets as people do when in difficulty, he remembered his handkerchief; he put some moss in it, and so made a bundle. He had but one mug, but he had several handkerchiefs in the store-room, and need not use this one again.

Looking round the island for a place to fish, he came to a spot where a little headland projected on the Serendib side, but farther down than where they had bathed. At the end of the headland a willow trunk or blue gum hung over the water, and as he came near a kingfisher flew off the trunk and away round Serendib. Mark thought this a likely spot, as the water looked deep, and the willow cast a shadow on one side, and fish might come for anything that fell from the boughs. He dropped his bait in, and sat down in the shade to watch his blue float, which was reflected in the still water.

He had not used his right to take the matchlock, because when he came out with it and saw Bevis, whose back was turned, he thought how selfish he was, for he knew Bevis liked shooting better than anything. So he put the gun back, and went fishing.

Against his own wishes Bevis acknowledged Mark’s reason and right; against his own wishes Mark forbore to use his right that he might not be selfish.

While Mark watched his float Bevis alternately twisted up the duck, and sat down under the teak-tree with the Odyssey, in which he read that—

from which Ulysses selected and felled enough for his vessel, and,—

Pondering over this Bevis planned his raft, intending to make it of six or eight beams of poplar, placed lengthways; across these a floor of short lesser poles put close together; thirdly, a layer of long poles; and above these the catamaran planks for the deck. He had not enough plank to make the sides so he proposed to fix uprights and extend a railing all round, and wattle this with willows, which would keep off some of the wash of the waves, like bulwarks. Even then, perhaps, the sea might flush the deck; so he meant to fasten the chest in the store-room on it as a locker, to preserve such stores as they might take with them.

A long oar would be the rudder, working it on the starboard side, and there would be a mast; but of course such a craft could only sail before the wind—she could not tack. In shallow water—they could pole along like a punt better than row, for the raft would be cumbrous. Arranging this in his mind, he let the duck burn one side; it had a tendency to burn, as he could not baste it. Soon after he had sat down again he wondered what the time was, and recollected the sundial.

This must be made at once, because it must be ready when Charlie made the signal. He looked up at the sun, whose place he could distinguish, because the branches sheltered his eyes from the full glare. The sun seemed very high, and he thought it must be already noon. Giving the duck a twist, he ran to the hut, and fetched a piece of board, his compasses, and a gimlet. Another twist, and then under the teak-tree he drew a circle with the compasses on the board, scratching with the steel point in the wood.

With the gimlet he bored two holes aslant to each other, and then ran for two nails and a file. In his haste, having to get back to turn the roast, he did not notice that the matchlock was hung up in the hut. He filed the heads off the nails, and then tapped them into the gimlet holes; they wanted a little bending, and then their points met, forming a gnomon, like putting the two forefingers together.

Then he bored two holes through the board, and inserted other nails half through, ready for hammering into the post. The post he cut from one of the poles left from the fence; it was short and thick, and he sharpened it at one end, leaving the top flat as sawn off. Fetching the iron bar, he made a hole in the ground, put the post in, and gave it one tap; then the duck wanted turning again.