Sure enough—there was a tiny wisp of smoke, trickling up the face of the rocks.
But no hut was to be seen.
They landed, and pulled the boat out on the beach.
Then they went toward the smoke. The fire was built among flat stones out in the open.
A hollow-cheeked woman sat with a poor, scrawny scrap of a baby on her arm. In her other hand she held what looked like an old paint can, and she was stirring some thin sort of gruel in it, in spite of the weight of the baby on her arm. It was not heavy, poor little creature!
"Good-morning. Where's your tent?" Grenfell asked, cheerily.
"There she is."
The woman pointed with the gruel stick to a mass of canvas and matting, plastered in patches with mud against the face of the cliff.
"Why do you cook in the open?"
"'Cos us hasn't got no stove."