“It is still Sunday.”
With one accord they dropped to their knees and thanked Providence for the mercy which had been shown them. Such prayers are the spontaneous tribute of the overflowing heart. They are not to be uttered aloud or recorded in the written word.
The men had no difficulty in locating a stream, owing to the “creek,” as Madge had phrased it, which marked the approach of each torrent to the sea. Here, too, were oysters in abundance. Whether or not the bivalves liked a certain admixture of fresh water and brine, their enthusiastic admirers did not know; but certainly the best-stocked beds were invariably situated near the mouth of a mountain stream.
With a plentiful supply of shaped planks, cordage, even rusty nails, they soon knocked together a low hut, not more than breast high, and closed at one end. The ship’s flag curtained off the inner section, which was allotted to the two girls, while the men could sleep, on guard, as it were, in the outer part.
As night came on they started a fire and cooked two birds of the penguin type, which allowed themselves to be chased and captured. The flesh was tough and none too well flavored, but the feasters were not hard to please. When the repast was ended, and they sat on piles of soft sand looking out over the darkening expanse of waters, for the tide was high again, Maseden electrified Sturgess by saying:
“Do you smoke, C. K.?”
“Does a duck swim?” was the prompt reply.
Maseden produced from his coat pocket a pipe and tin of tobacco.
The other eyed them with downright amazement.
“Well, can you beat it?” he cried. “What else have you got in your pocket, old scout? A bottle of rye whisky and a box of chocolates for the girls, or what?”