“Oh, very little,” was the answer. “A few feet—ten or fifteen feet of three-inch stuff would serve—but the mischief of it is that we haven’t got it. Even the remains of the wreck will not yield us another inch.”
“Then,” said I, “all that remains is to break into the catamaran, and take out of her as much as is required. She has served her turn; we shall not require her any more if we can get the schooner into the water; and—”
“Kick me; kick me hard!” shouted Cunningham in an ecstasy of delight, as he smote me a blow between the shoulders that made me stagger. “The catamaran!” he continued. “Of course. Oh, what a lot of fools we were not to have thought of that before! But,” suddenly bethinking himself, “if we had, it would have been of no use, for you had her. She is available now, however, and in ten minutes we’ll rip enough stuff out of her to finish our job. I know exactly where to find the kind of stuff we want. Chips ahoy! bring your tools down to the catamaran, my son; we’re going to break her up!”
The carpenter flung his hand aloft in joyous intimation that he understood, and at once made a dash for his tools, while Simpson and I wended our way to the schooner, to see how things looked in that direction, and also to forage for a morsel of food, for we had eaten nothing since breakfast, and were feeling pretty hungry.
A single glance at the cradle, which, when wedged up, would lift the schooner off the keel blocks and throw her weight upon the launching ways, sufficed to reveal the pitiful straits to which Chips had latterly been reduced; for worked into it there were scraps of wood less than a foot in length, fastened to other pieces of similar size with nails or plugs, and presenting a most flimsy and unsatisfactory appearance. But when I came to look more closely I saw that the only unsatisfactory part of the work was its appearance; it was not nearly so flimsy as at first sight it had appeared to be. Chips had evidently fully realised his responsibility, and had taken care that, let the material be what it might, there should be nothing faulty about his workmanship. And I saw also that, given the necessary amount of material, he would be able to finish his work in a very short time.
The boatswain routed out some food for us, and while Simpson and I sat down to eat and drink, Murdock, upon my instructions, went down to the catamaran—which the carpenter and Cunningham had already attacked—and brought away from her the two guns and the ammunition that remained from our engagement with the savages. And when he had performed this errand I bade him get aboard the schooner, rout out a few extra guns and a further supply of ammunition, load the weapons, and then station himself in the bows as a lookout, with special instructions to keep a wary eye upon the neighbouring cliffs and report the very first indication of the approach of an enemy.
The boatswain had scarcely been on the lookout a matter of twenty minutes when he hailed me.
“Mr Temple,” he shouted, “I wish you’d come up here, sir, for a minute, and bring that there glass of Mr Cunnin’ham’s along with ye. There’s some’at up there on top o’ them cliffs that I can’t rightly make out, and I’d like you to come and have a look at it.”
Accordingly up I went, with Cunningham’s telescope still slung over my shoulders, and joined Murdock where he stood right in the eyes of the schooner, peering intently at a particular spot on the top of the cliffs.
“Now then,” said I, withdrawing the telescope from its case, “where is this mysterious something that you can’t make out?”