“Thank you, Chips; thank you, lad, and bless you. Nay, nay, I will not tell you to-night the reason of my stupid tears. I’m not the man to sadden a Saturday night. Come, lads, clear the decks. I’ll play you the grandest hornpipe you ever listened to.”
And play he did. Every note, every tone was thrilling. A dance was soon got up, and never before, not even in a man-of-war, did men foot the deck more merrily than those shipwrecked Crusoes did now.
But the queerest group there was just amidships, where Janeira herself and Fitz—all white eyes and flashing teeth—were madly tripping it on the light fantastic toe; while little Nelda and that droll old crane danced a fandango, that caused all hands, including even Tom himself, to shout with laughter when they beheld it.
The very solemnity of the crane as he curved his neck, hopped, and pirouetted, was the funniest part of the performance.
But next day all hands knew Tom’s pathetic story.
“That air I played,” he told them, “was my little daughter Fanny’s favourite. Fanny is dead. Georgie too. He was my boy. I was rich once, but drink ruined me, and—oh, may God forgive me!—led indirectly to the graveyard gate, where wife and children all lie buried!”
Two long months more had gone by, during which the exploring party had been busy enough almost every day at the distant hill, prospecting, excavating here and there, and searching in every likely nook for the cave of gold.
But all in vain.
During all the time they had now been on the island—more than six months—never a ship had been seen, nor had any boat or canoe ventured near the place.