The shack behind the house where the provisions had been stored still held, though the roof had gone pretty much to pieces, and here the sailor had fixed the sleeping quarters of Katafa.
Blankets had been given to them by the wreck, supplementing those left behind by Stanistreet, and, getting along for sundown, Kearney, with three blankets on his arm, two for a bed and one for a quilt, beckoned the girl to follow him.
She stopped short at the entrance to the shack and then took a step backwards, standing and watching him at his work.
Then, when he came out, he pointed to the blankets.
“There ain’t no pilla,” said Kearney, “but you won’t be mindin’ that. Now then, Kanaka girl, there’s your bunk. Ain’t you likin’ the look of it?”
She had drawn back another step.
“I’m with you,” said Kearney, pointing to the couch.
She shook her head. Ask a fox to enter a trap.
“Well, then, you can just sleep in the trees,” said he, and off he went round the house, leaving her to her choice.
Dick, tired out with the day, was in the house and sound asleep, and the sailor, who had a fishing line to overhaul, sat down by the door and set to work on it. As he sat, busy with his fingers and reviewing with his mind Kanakas and their unaccountable ways, he saw the girl coming out from the trees. She had fished two of the blankets out of the shack, and she was crossing the sward with them towards the canoe that was tied to the bank. She got into the canoe with them and vanished from sight—all but her head, visible in the sunset light above the bank.