“Eh? What do you mean? Why don’t you go on?”
“Why, can’t you see, sir?” said the big sailor sharply.
“No, Tom. Why, you don’t mean to say that—”
“Yes, I do, sir,” grunted the man; and he took off his straw hat to have a good puzzling scratch at his closely-cropped hair, while the middy stood up to examine two lissome tufts of leafy cane which had been bent over and tied together.
“Oh,” cried Murray, “anybody might have done that who wanted to mark the place, my lad.”
“Yes, sir,” said the sailor, grunting, “but anybody wouldn’t ha’ thought to make a clove hitch, same as I did a bit ago. That’s my mark, sir—T.M.’s own. I’m T.M., sir.”
“Don’t laugh, man,” said the lad passionately. “I suppose you’re right; but it’s horrible, for we’ve been wasting so much time, and come out again in the same spot that we went in.”
“Can’t see as it’s wasted time, sir,” growled the man. “I say it’s time saved, for if it hadn’t been for my knot we might have gone on round again.”
“Don’t talk so much, sir. Give way, my lads. Get back into the lagoon, and we’ll try another of these wretched cuts.”
Another was soon found and duly marked by breaking down a few of the bamboos level with the water, and plaiting them this time in an unmistakable way, the result at the end of close upon an hour proving to be just the same.