Little by little, however, the calm of the great ocean invaded our souls and that well-known influence (mentioned in so many letters of consolation), "the hand of time," soothed the pain in our hearts. I think it was the quiet, self-contained Whinney who brought the most reasoned philosophy to bear on the situation.
"They will forget," he said one evening, as we sat watching the Double Cross slowly revolve about its axis. "We must remember that they are a race of children. They have no written records of the past, no anticipations of the future. They live for the present. Childlike, they will grieve deeply, for a day maybe; then another sun will rise, Baahaabaa will give another picnic—" he sighed deeply.
"The tragedy of it is that their memories should be so short and ours so long," I commented.
"Yes," agreed Swank, "but I suppose we ought to be thankful. They were a wonderful people, it was a wonderful experience. And no matter what art-juries of the future may do to me, my pictures were a success in the Filberts."
Blessed old Swank, he always looked on the bright side of things!
Day by day matters mended—and our spirits rose. We began to think more and more of getting in touch with civilization. What a tale we should have to tell. How we should put it over the other explorers with their trite Solomons and threadbare Marquesas!
"Where do you think we'll land, Captain?" I asked Triplett.
"Hard to say," he answered, "accordin' to compass-plant I'm steerin' a straight course for anywhere, but accordin' to the jackass (he had dropped the word "quadrant" since Swank's thrust) we're spinnin' a web round these seas from where we started to nowhere via where we be."
