"That's that!" I thought, flinging the hammer aside and strolling out into the tropical sunshine. "Now I'll pop over to the aerodrome, and see how they're getting on."
Gran'pa, Dr. Croft and Stringer were there (in charge of one another and some half-dozen natives), and I was anxious to let them know the result of my morning's labors. It was intensely hot, and as I strolled languidly through the mango plantation, I felt a grim satisfaction in my physical condition of perspiring stickiness.
When I entered the large bamboo building which constituted our workshop and aero garage I was immediately struck by its air of peace and solitude. The portable lathe was silent and the benches were littered with deserted tools, as though everyone had left hurriedly.
At first, the feverish pictures of a negro revolt, anarchy, or assassination flashed through my brain; but presently, it became obvious that nothing was damaged or taken. The place had been simply left—as though it was under the spell of a dinner hour, or the Sabbath. A terrible thought seized me, and hurrying into the open again I began a search of the immediate vicinity, in the hope of finding some loitering negro who could tell me what had happened to the toilers.
Not a soul was in sight. The countryside seemed to have been suddenly swept clean of all life and movement; but, standing still and listening, I at last heard a faint and distant sound of cheering. It came unmistakably from the direction of the seashore. So I moved forward again, worked my way down a narrow cliff pathway and thence emerged on to a stretch of yellow sand. The noise—of much splashing and shouting—was now on my right, but the cause of the commotion was hidden by a handful of giant boulders which Nature had playfully flung down at this spot.
After a ten minute search for footholds, I managed to climb to the top of the highest boulder; and suddenly I saw a scene which nearly made me weep at the futility of man's endeavor. There had I been working hard all the morning, and here were Gran'pa, Croft, and Stringer—naked and unashamed—careering round a miniature harbor on some crudely fashioned raft-like object which was driven apparently by a petrol engine.
As the thing drew nearer to me I could see that it was preceded by a huge curling wave, which was made by some fiendish contrivance to fling itself over the heads and bodies of the three mariners. Every now and then, Gran'pa tugged at a piece of rope astern and the whole craft leapt half out of the water, dived, and then settled down into a sort of erratic seesaw movement. The cliff tops and beach were dotted with excited negroes, and each time Gran'pa pulled the rope they broke into loud cheers and flung themselves about in an ecstasy of wild abandonment.
As I watched, I visualized that terrible business of Gran'pa and the dug-out at home in England, and I could see that he was as wilful as ever. To think that I had been working myself to a shadow in this infernal tropical heat while he and Croft and Stringer were disporting themselves in this aquatic and hysterical fashion!
I stood up on the boulder top and waved my arms and shouted. The only answer was a loud and unanimous whoop of joy from the negroes, who no doubt thought that I had joined them as another enthusiastic spectator.
Presently, however, the craft turned round and began heading in my direction. As it did so, two of the crew were precipitated into the water, where they commenced behaving like hilarious porpoises. The man still left in charge of the thing was (naturally) Gran'pa, who continued serenely onwards until he finally ran aground on a kind of quayside composed of rugged, flat-topped rocks which jutted out into the sea like a pier.