Among the books brought on shore was a church service, and Frank, being more English than Fred, in a solemn voice read the service. The bodies were then lowered into the grave and covered up.
Some weeks after this they raised a cross above the spot where they lay, and carved the names of the unfortunate sailors on it.
"Those wretches may have had friends and relations in America, who may be even now waiting and waiting, and hoping and hoping, for their return. Who knows?"
That is what Fred said, as in company with his friend he left the lonesome grave to return to camp.
For two months after the destruction of the derelict the weather continued unsettled and heavy. A deal of rain fell occasionally, and there were at times storms of wind that appeared to shake the island to its very foundations.
One evening, on their return from the woods, where they had been cavy shooting, Frank seemed quieter and duller than usual.
"What's the matter, old man? You don't appear to be your own saucy self to-night at all."
Fred laughed a kind of a ready-made laugh.
"No, strangely enough," he said, "I feel dull in spirits. I don't know if I am looking old, but I really feel to be about ninety-three or ninety-four."
"It's best to be exact, old man," said Fred, "but a good dinner will set you as straight as a plummet."