Dick, sitting there in the sunset this evening, was no longer a child. Not quite a man, he was greater than a man. Fresh from the hand of Nature that had moulded and wrought on his father and mother, not quite civilized, not quite a savage, a poet might have seen in him the youth of the world, the dawn of man before cities arose to cast their shadows on him, before civilisation created savages.
Neither of them saw the long years of companionship during which they had worked as shipbuilders together, the storms and incidents by shore and reef—it was all as nought. Katafa had brought a new interest to Dick. Age and laziness had done their work with Kearney.
As they sat like this, the meal nearly finished, they saw the girl. She had come out from among the trees away on the other side of the sward. She was carrying something under her arm. She stood for a moment shading her eyes against the sunset and looking towards them. Then she vanished back amongst the trees, and Dick, rising to his feet, came running across the sward. He knew where to find her. Since the breaking of the canoe, she had made a shack for herself amongst the trees, and there she was crouched now and dimly to be seen in the fading light.
At the sound of the parting of the leaves, she moved suddenly as if trying to hide something with her body.
“Katafa,” said the boy, speaking in the native, “the food is waiting for you and he is no longer angry.”
“It does not matter, Taori,” replied her voice from the shadows. “I will eat to-morrow.”
“What is that you have beneath you there?”
“A bread-fruit, Taori—I want no better food.”
“Ahai—but you have no fire to cook it.”
“It does not matter, Taori. I will cook it to-morrow.”