"Now as to the building business," went on Schumer, "I want all the Southern Cross chaps to get to work on it first thing to-morrow, so we may as well get them over to the fishing camp to-night."
"To-night!"
"Yes, they'll be able to stretch their legs before setting to, and they'll want to put up tents for themselves while they are working."
"Very well. I can send them over in the whaleboat."
"That will do after supper," said Schumer.
The sun at this moment was just setting beyond the reef, and a thin wreath of smoke was rising near the grove where Isbel was busy lighting the fire and getting supper ready. Luckman was seated on the sand, near the house, smoking and seemingly oblivious to everything but the beauty of the scene before him.
The crew of the Southern Cross were fraternizing across the water with the crew of the Domain. Their thin, high-pitched voices came across the lagoon water and mixed with the crying of the gulls who were flocking around the vessels, picking up scraps from the rubbish that the fellows had hove overboard. Then, as the sun sank, the crying of the gulls died down and silence fell on the island with the night, a silence only broken by the song of the surf and the blowing of the night wind in the foliage of the grove.
Isbel, having prepared the meal, had disappeared, and the three men found themselves alone by the flickering camp fire. It was the night before the new moon, and beyond the zone of firelight the lagoon showed all shot with stars, and the two schooners gray black with their anchor lights shining in the twilight of the stars.
Schumer had produced a bottle of wine in honor of Luckman, but despite the wine and Schumer's attempts at conviviality the talk hung fire.
Floyd was thinking hard.