"You were anxious to get to your journey's end, I suppose," said the steerage passenger, after a little hesitation.
"Aren't we all anxious? Do we want to stay here for ever?" And then there was another pause, which ended by Percival's saying, in a tone of subdued irritation: "There are few of our party that have the same reasons that I have for wishing myself on the way back to England."
"You are not going to stay in South America, then?"
"Not I. There is someone I want to find; that's all."
"A man?"
"Yes, a man. I thought that he had sailed in the Falcon; but I suppose I was mistaken."
"And if you don't find him?"
"I must hunt the world over until I do. I won't go back to England without him, if he's alive."
"Friend or enemy?" said Mackay, fixing his eyes on Percival's face with a look of interest. At any other time Percival might have resented the question: here, in the log hut, with a tempest roaring and the rain streaming outside, and the great stormy sea as a barrier between the dwellers on the island and the rest of the civilised world, such questions and answers seemed natural enough.
"Enemy," said Percival, sharply. It was evident that some hidden sense of wrong had sprung suddenly to the light, and perhaps amazed him by its strength, for he began immediately to explain away his answer. "Hum! not that exactly. But not a friend."