The rays of the moon, now high over the sea, lit up their immediate surroundings. From the cliff edge to an irregular row of palms a few yards back, low-growing plants carpeted the ground. On one side of the chimney they were trodden down, and a faintly marked track was discernible until it disappeared among the trees. No sound broke the stillness except the wash of the surf two hundred feet below, and an occasional deep booming note from some distant spot in the forest, which Trentham identified as the call of the cassowary.
'"Saved his bacon!" Mr. Hoole said: 'tis a true word,' remarked Grinson. 'Which I mean to say, you saved him from being turned into bacon, sir--or ham. He 'd have cut up very well.'
He stood at Trentham's side, looking down at the man whom Meek was trying to restore to consciousness--a brawny figure, clad in duck trousers and a white flannel shirt, with a linen collar and a blue tie. His features were heavy, his skin was deeply browned. The crown of his head was almost entirely bald, but a thick growth of short brown hair clothed his lips, cheeks, and chin.
'The very picter of Captain Lew Summers as once I sailed with,' Grinson went on. 'How 'd he get in this mess, sir?'
'I don't know,' replied Trentham. 'He hasn't said a word.'
He thought he saw the man's eyelids flicker.
'He 's coming to, sir,' said Meek, from the ground.
'Lift his head, Ephraim,' said Grinson. 'I 'm speckylating whether his first word 'll be a curse or a blessing.'
The man slowly opened his eyes, but it seemed to Trentham, watching him intently, that he had more command over himself than might have been expected in a man recovering from a swoon. He glanced from Meek to Grinson, then to Trentham, and raising himself on his elbows looked along the track that led among the trees.
'Feel better?' asked Trentham.