"I spied it lying among the drift along the shore," he went on. "It's a bit rusty, but that'll scrape off. It's worth its weight in gold to us. We've something to cook in now."
He spoke cheerily, with the utmost frankness. If he still nourished any resentment his manner did not betray it. In her present state of depression Grace would have welcomed the apparition of Satan himself. She made no attempt to conceal her joy at his return. Clapping her hands with childish enthusiasm, she cried:
"Oh, isn't it perfectly lovely!"
At home she had never been inside a kitchen. It is indeed doubtful if she knew what a culinary utensil looked like. Perhaps it had never occurred to her that the kettle and many other things as humble are all indispensable parts in our civilization. But now she understood. Necessity is a quick teacher and Grace was learning. The pot was an ordinary tripod affair, battered and rusty. Judging from its appearance, it had fallen overboard from some ship and had floated ashore. Otherwise it was sound and serviceable. She could see that its value to them was well-nigh inestimable.
"That's splendid—that's bully!" she repeated excitedly.
He enjoyed her enthusiasm. It was the first time he had seen her smile, and it looked good to him. He chuckled to himself as he said:
"But that isn't all. A pot with nothing to put in it isn't much use. I've brought you something good to eat."
Plunging his hand into the pot he brought out half a dozen live crabs and threw them at her feet.
"Aren't they beauties?" he exclaimed. "I'll bet they'll taste dandy, too. Look out! Mind they don't nip your fingers with their claws. They're pretty lively. They bite like the mischief."
Grace's mouth was already watering: