But the greatest misfortune of all was the almost complete destruction of the donkey-engine, so that it would be impossible to distil water.
They managed to save enough, however, to last for fully three weeks with economy, and as Talbot said, there was no saying what might not occur before then.
This water was carefully stored in casks, placed in sheltered corners, and raised on stones to defend them against the ravages of the terrible white ant.
A more terrible scourge than these Termitidæ constitute, it would be difficult to conceive. What makes it more serious, is that they work completely concealed--in galleries, that is. And so thin is the outer shell of wood which they leave that their presence is not suspected until the whole of some structure--and this may be of any size, from a wine-box to a building,--suddenly gives way.
These white ants once, to my knowledge, attacked a library of books which had not been used for some time. They were evidently fonder of reading than the townspeople. We talk of devouring a favourite author. Well, in the case in point these terrible Termitidæ devoured their authors in a far more literal sense, and fairly ate them up, but they left the bindings all intact, so that when a volume was pulled out one day it turned Dead Sea fruit, and fell to dust in the librarian's hands. Then, and not till then, was the whole extent of the mischief discovered.
Our little shipwrecked colony now settled down to wait and watch.
There was but little else to do.
They lived in hope, however, and day after day many a straining eye was turned seawards, to seek for the sail that never appeared, and the last thing at night which Talbot or the boys did was to walk around the edges of the cliffs, in the expectation of seeing some mast-head light.
A fire was ready at a moment's notice to light as a signal, but alas! it was not required.
They had yet to find out, however, what these ants were capable of.