"That gang ashore'll try to get back here," said Locke, looking over at the island. "They can't live on sand and water."
"Come to breakfast," said Trask. "Just leave things to me, and talk about our guns. We've got to give the impression that we're a young arsenal."
They passed into the cabin, and Trask took the occasion to slip into the galley while Doc and Tom were absent, and lifting out an old rat-tail file, which the cook used to sharpen his knives on, slipped it up the sleeve of his jacket.
They sent Doc out on deck to keep watch and Trask ordered him to get the bucket of sand out of the boat.
"Don't you feel worried about this, Miss Trinkets," said Locke, as Marjorie looked up doubtful.
"Do you think it's serious, Dad?" she asked.
"Serious! Not at all! We'll get out of here as soon as there's a breath of air, and leave that wild lot to themselves."
"But poor old Dinshaw," she said, "and Captain Jarrow—what's to become of them?"
"We'll have to get Dinshaw, of course," said Trask. "I'll take Doc and go for him at once with the boat." He drank his coffee hastily, and went out on deck. He disappeared into the forecastle and was below for several minutes.
"Do you think you ought to risk going ashore?" asked Locke, when Trask returned with the bucket of sand.