One match, some tobacco, a tin of sardines, a lobster, a flask of whiskey, a bottle of water, and two empty cocoanut shells and—five men.
Marcus Maitland peering into his camera hoped he hadn’t taken two photographs on one film, and Hastings was quite certain he had not. Why that certain assurance should have been his was simply evidence that it had been his duty in life to assure his elders and betters that whatever their excellencies had done, they had done well and that nothing they did could be wrong. “Take another,” he suggested, “to make sure.” And Marcus took another. As he wound up the film he wondered where his niece was. Hastings, of course, was wondering, too, and hoping: “Not on the other side of the island with St. Jermyn.” “I don’t know, sir,” he said; “shall I go and find her?”
At the same moment Mr. Watkins came along. He wanted, he said, to show Miss Carston something really most interesting he had found. Every one had something most interesting to show Miss Carston, but she was not to be found. Marcus suggested they should all look for her, she couldn’t be far off. The island was small—but she herself was not to be found, though all the men sought her.
Uncle Marcus thought she must be in the boat and went to see, but he could find no boat. It was, therefore, quite evident she had gone fishing. They must wait till she came back; she must be back soon. They waited.
A sea-bird island is not a very pleasant place to be on for any length of time: moreover, there was a storm getting up.
“Let us call for help!” said Pease. “Let us shout!”
Watkins yodled. Ever since he had come north he had been awaiting his chance to do it. He did it again and again.
“Don’t do that,” said Marcus; “I can’t hear.”
Watkins, piqued, said there was nothing to hear.