How to get all these things ashore was a problem. Finally he tied them up sacklike in the blanket, with six feet of loose cord, and, holding the end of this, he ventured to jump.
It came near drowning him, but he held fast to the rope and came through, dragging the freight after him. Well above high-water mark on the shore he poured out the cargo and immediately went back for more.
This time he secured the rifle, but could find no cartridges. Its magazine was full, however, and he took it, with a hatchet, a spade, more loose potatoes, and several more food tins. He could find no cooking utensils of any sort, except the coffeepot, which seemed useless, as he had no coffee.
This load was cumbersome and hard to get ashore. He almost had to drop it, and when he landed he felt that his strength would permit no more of these excursions. He was wolfishly hungry, and with an armful of tins, whose labels he could not see, he plunged into the woods again toward his camp fire, which glowed redly through the misty jungle.
With the hatchet he was able to split fragments from the fallen tree, and he made a roaring blaze again. By its light he discovered that he had brought two tins of tomatoes, one of corn and two of vegetable soup—no very filling articles, any of them. He had no better can opener than the hatchet, but he hacked open the tomatoes and gulped down the contents, meanwhile setting the soup tins to heat, and laying several potatoes to roast at the edge of the fire.
While they cooked, he dried his clothes once more. The potatoes proved hard, tasteless, saltless, but they filled his inside, and, with the hot soup, a marvelous change was wrought in him. Courage came back surprisingly. He had supplies now, enough for days, perhaps for weeks. Enough to carry him to La Carolina—enough to take him to the emerald glacier. It was possible that he might be in time, after all.
Hope and impatience came back to him as he huddled in the comforting warmth. The valley of the glacier might be a day’s tramp away, or it might be three or four—hardly more than that. He could scarcely miss it if he followed down the coast. He would have to pack a heavy load of supplies, but he felt hardened to anything now. Meanwhile, rest was the first need. He forced himself to lie down, to close his eyes. He did not think he could sleep, but while plans still revolved through his mind he fell asleep.
When he awoke he was wet again. It was gray morning, and raining. The branches dripped dismally. Only a thread of smoke rose from the almost extinct fire. He split chips with the hatchet, got it blazing again, and went back to the beach for more food, much less buoyant than a few hours ago.
His little pile of salvage lay in a driving rain, and now he was able to see surely what he had. It was certainly more than he could ever carry on his back, and, worse yet, the tinned stuff seemed mostly vegetables. He picked out a tin of soup, however, and one of dried beef, and, returning to his fire, he opened them and ate.
Returning to the beach, he looked carefully over his stores again. It was useless, he thought, to carry the spade. The rifle and hatchet would be cumbersome enough. He sorted out such of the tinned goods as would give most nutriment for least weight, and found a good deal of soup, sardines, beef and salmon after all. One tin box that he had supposed to contain meat was full of candles, which he had brought with some vague idea of underground work. It occurred to him that they might be invaluable for lighting fires.