But Fred had another duty to perform, he had to lead the singing.
What a happy, hopeful time is youth! Here were our two heroes cast away on a lonely island in the midst of the sea, far removed from the tracks of commerce, with no means of communicating with the outer world—buried alive one might say—yet on this bright, beautiful night, rowing about on the placid bosom of the bay, as devoid of all thought and care as if sailing on Loch Lomond or Windermere. Some portion of the happiness they felt, and the hopefulness too, was undoubtedly due to the climate itself. The air here is so pure, the breath of the ocean, mingling with the spicy odours from off the island, so balmy, so life-giving, that only to exist is to live, only to have being is calmness and content combined.
For two whole hours they rowed up and down their lake, singing the songs of their far-off native land, only desisting now and then to lean on their oars and talk of home and dear old times—times that appeared to their young minds already long buried in the distant past.
They were slowly paddling along the inside of the reef, just beyond the range of the falling spray. But this last was but little to-night, for the tide was well out, and there was scarcely any swell on.
Yet the sound of the breaking waters was very soothing, and caused them to linger longer alongside the reef than they might otherwise have done.
Fred was just clearing his throat for another song, when he was attracted by the strange attitude of the Newfoundland. The dog was standing with his forepaws on the gunwale of the boat, his ears were forward, his hair on end from head to tail, and uttering a low, half-frightened, but ominous growl.
"Look at the dog," cried Fred. "He sees or hears something on the reef or over it."
The idea of savages in their canoes at once occurred to Frank, for nobody was even yet sure that the island was entirely uninhabited.
"Better pull a little way in, I think," said Frank.
"Give way then," said Fred.