"Supper is all ready, sah," said Quambo. And a glorious supper it was; for everyone was gloriously hungry.
The only part of yesterday's provisions that still held out was the salt. For in his hurry, when coming away, Quambo had rolled an immense piece in a table napkin.
There was enough fish left for breakfast, but they took the precaution to stow it away in the locker of the boat.
Next day and another and still another passed monotonously away, and it was now evident to all they might never expect to see their ship again. And do as they would, they now began to feel lonely and cheerless.
They were prisoners in this cockle-shell of a coral island, and the hope of being picked up seemed very remote indeed. Meanwhile what about food even? The fish might possibly fail them, the robber crabs might keep aloof, and they would soon eat up all the cocoanuts and pandanus fruit in the place.
To remain here, therefore, was but to wait for death, and to attempt to get away was—well, what was it?
"What do you think about it, Frank," said Fred one evening, as they all lay on the soft sand, with the cheerful light of the camp fire flickering in their faces.
"About what?" said Frank, whose thoughts had been far, far away indeed.
"Why about attempting to escape?"
"Oh, we are, very likely, a thousand miles and over from any civilized settlement!"