With Kearney there, he and Katafa had always been subordinates; between subordinates there is always a bond, a league, however vague and unwritten, against the master. Youth had helped, and the two had made a little society of their own, with Dick as leader. This relationship had been strangely disturbed this morning by the absence of Kearney and by the actions of Katafa, who was doing things she had never done before, sitting in a different attitude and speaking in a new tone of assurance and indifference. Dick almost felt that something had happened to himself—something had.
She had been accustomed to help in clearing away after meals, but this morning she just sat and watched. There was not much clearing to be done, but Kearney had always been particular that no scraps or fish bones were left about to bring the robber crabs round scavenging or the gulls. A dirty camp has always followers, so the scraps were shot into the lagoon; then the plates had to be cleaned and put away on their shelf in the house.
Dick, thinking she was maybe lazy or tired, did not bother. He finished his business and stamped out the fire, reckoning that if Kearney wanted food when he came back he could cook it for himself—but where had Kearney gone to, and why was he so long away?
He had not taken the dinghy. The little boat was moored at its usual place by the bank. He must have gone off in the woods.
“Katafa,” said Dick, after running to the boat to see if Kearney had taken the fishing tackle, always kept in a little locker in the stern sheets, “what makes Kearney so long away? He has not taken the lines to fish with from the boat.”
“Perhaps,” said Katafa, “he is on the reef.”
“No,” replied the boy, “for he has not taken the boat.”
“Perhaps he is amongst the tall trees.”
Dick half shook his head as if in doubt. Then, raising his voice, he cried again:
“Hai, amonai—Jim! Hai! Hai!”