“But anyway,” she declared, “I’m sure you will find God’s rain, John.”
Weary days and nights followed; days when the doctor and his band of native helpers dug from dawn to dark in the sandy soil; nights when the young white people, too anxious to sleep, sat under their palm trees and watched while the moon sank into the sea, and the volcano of Tann, “the lighthouse of the Pacific,” flung its blazing banners high against the heavens.
Two weeks passed and the diggers found no water. Then one day the continued drought left the old chief’s favorite water-hole quite dry. On the same day the side of the new well caved in.
The two troubles coming together turned the interest of Namakei to suspicion. When the digging began again he forbade his men to take part in the work, and, though he still watched the other toilers, his beady eyes had the look of a hawk’s just ready to pounce upon its prey.
The moon was full before the cave-in was repaired. The next morning the two remaining helpers did not report for duty, and old Namakei told the doctor that they would not come back.
“They are my prisoners,” he laughed. “If Missi Paton wish help in finding the buried rain, let his God give it.”
“His God will give it,” the missionary replied, calmly.
And alone Doctor Paton went on with his undertaking.
Two days, three days, passed, and still no water. Namakei assumed a more threatening attitude.
“The moon wanes!” he warned the missionary.