“’Round the corner to the left,” he said, “you’ll find a sloping rock. Some wreckage is lodged in an eddy alongside it. Secure the cordage, and any other odds and ends you think useful. Shin up here with a few rope lengths at once. I want them straight away. Have you a strong knife?”
Yes, Sturgess luckily did possess a serviceable knife. By the time he had handed over a number of rope strands Maseden, helped by the girls, had hauled back the mast, to which he began attaching short loops, or stirrups, about two feet apart. He did not expect that either Madge Forbes or her sister would be able to climb the mast, and it was almost a sheer impossibility that he and Sturgess should carry them time and again. So the mast, after serving twice as a bridge, was now to become a ladder.
Sturgess returned with a curiously mixed spoil—a good deal of rope, a sou’wester, a long, thin line—probably the whip used to establish the connection between bridge and forecastle while parts of the Southern Cross still held together—and the ship’s flag, the ensign which was flying at the poop when the ship struck.
Water was dripping off him. Evidently he had either been caught by a sea or had slipped off a rock.
“Accident?” inquired Maseden.
“Not quite. I had to risk something to get these,” and he produced from his pockets a dozen large oysters.
No party of gourmets ever sat down to a feast with greater zest than those four hungry people. Probably, in view of the labors and hardships they were yet fated to undergo, the oysters saved their lives. There is no knowing. Human endurance can be stretched to surprising limits, but, seeing that they were destined to taste no other food during twelve long hours of arduous exertion, the value of Sturgess’s find can hardly be overrated.
The oysters were of a really excellent species, though under the circumstances they were sure to be palatable, no matter what their actual qualities.
“I suppose I need hardly ask if there are any more to be had?” inquired Maseden, when the meal was dispatched.