We set to work to get up some coal from the bunkers and some provisions from the storeroom. All of us—even the ladies—carried a larger or a smaller package, and in about an hour the procession set back to the cliff abode.
Gerry and Vi were alone on deck as I emerged last from the companion. Gerry’s face was a study in scarlet and surprise. Something had most certainly occurred within the last few minutes to move him greatly, and as I appeared he strode toward me with an air of joyful importance. At the same moment, Vi, who had turned away as I stepped out of the doorway, swung quickly round again toward him.
“Hush!” she ejaculated, frowning with a meaning look toward the accommodation ladder, and Denvarre’s head rose into view as he ascended.
Gerry stopped with a look of indecision. Then with a beneficent grin he wheeled round and offered her his hand to step down off the deck. I saw that below, the others were grouped upon the rocks, waiting for us to begin the ascent again. I was at a loss to account for Gerry’s extraordinary behavior, especially the fact that he was walking happily enough with Vi, after avoiding her like the plague ever since he’d learned of her engagement.
I stepped down to join the party as Denvarre plunged hastily down the companion to fetch, as he explained, another pipe. I began to saunter along with Gwen and Lessaution, still watching with amazement Gerry’s enthusiastic escort of Vi. In two or three minutes Denvarre overtook us. I noticed that Gwen shot a look at him as he reached us, which I found difficult to explain. He was wearing a stony expression, and avoided meeting her gaze. He began to talk to Lessaution with great vivacity, and the two gradually drew ahead of us, swinging between them the sack of coal that the little Frenchman had been staggering under alone. We were all more or less weighed down with stores, even the girls carrying their share. Gwen bore in one hand a pound of candles, and in the other a tin of mustard.
As the other two drew out of earshot, the silence deepened uncomfortably between Gwen and myself. I cannot explain it, but there seemed to be a sense of strain between us. I looked up once to find her regarding me with a fixed expression, and she reddened deeply as I caught the glance. She turned her head away hurriedly. Then as if by an effort she faced me again. I could see by the catch in her pretty throat that she was gathering herself together to say something—something that she found it difficult to express. There came a sudden interruption.
Fidget, the fox-terrier, had been gambolling and ambling aimlessly about. Suddenly, raising her nose, she sniffed the air curiously. She barked sharply, pattering back toward the ship. She leaped the narrowest end of the fissure, and trotted up the further slopes of the basin still yapping angrily. Her nose was in the air defiantly; the bristles of her withers stood up.
She stopped with a quick jerk as she neared the top. Planting her fore-legs stiffly before her, she began a series of shrill yelpings, dancing in her excitement.
Her bark leaped a couple of octaves into a shriek of fear, and out from behind a boulder loomed the hideous triangular head we knew too well. The Monster of the cañon lumbered into view, and the little dog turned and flew for us frantically, not the merest indication of her tail in evidence, so tightly was it tucked between her legs.
In her unseeing terror she fled straight toward us, not avoiding the cleft. Consequently she came slap upon it, and unable to stop, charged straight into it. With a thump and a squeak she fell into the angle of the bottom. Being so far above her, we could plainly see how she was caught in the nip of the crevice, where she remained struggling desperately upon her back, howling piercingly as she twisted and wriggled between the cruel stones.