They were so elated that they forgot to gather any oysters, and even neglected to take away the iron and wires of the bunk, scraps of metal which might prove of inestimable worth in the days to come. Luckily, however, they had plenty of time, because the tide would fall during another couple of hours.
Maseden’s hands almost trembled as he undid the straps. Now that fortune had proved so kind he feared lest the cartridges might be spoiled. But a bullet torn from a brass case was followed by grains of dry, black powder.
Soon he had manufactured a squib. Dead branches off the pines—always the best of fire-wood, and far preferable to dead wood lying on the ground—were heaped in a suitable place, and, in less than the specified five minutes, a good fire was crackling merrily.
There were logs in plenty. Had they chosen, the two men could have built a furnace fierce enough to roast an ox whole.
It was good to see the wonderment on the faces of Madge and Nina when they awoke to find an array of coarse flax and woolen garments steaming in front of the blaze, and a dozen big oysters, cooked in the shells, awaiting each of them. About that time, too, the sun appeared, and his first rays changed the temperature of the land-locked estuary from biting cold to an agreeable warmth.
So the four breakfasted, and, at the close of the meal, held a council of war. With a charred stick, Maseden drew on a rock a rough map of Hanover Island.
“I overheard from one of the crew of the Southern Cross,” he said, “that the ship was supposed to be drifting towards Nelson Straits, which is the only opening into Smyth’s Channel ever attempted hereabouts, even in fine weather, by small sealers and guano-boats. Now, it happens,” he went on reflectively, “that this coast has always had a strange fascination for me.”
“It was a treat to see you clinging to it lovingly for hours at a time yesterday,” put in Sturgess.
“We want to hear what Mr. Maseden has to say,” cried Madge sharply.
“Sorry. I shan’t interrupt again. But, before the court resumes may I throw in a small suggestion? How about dropping these formal Misters and Misses? My front names are Charles Knight, usually shorted by my friends and admirers into C. K. What’s yours, Maseden?”