"Grandfather has regained his sight—courage, dear—Yip has a plan. The noon meal."
Their eyes met above the papers, Martin's kindling with understanding, Little Billy's bewildered.
"By George, she wrote it!" exclaimed Martin. "I know—she slipped it to Yip in the cabin, and he slipped it to me. And all the time I thought I had a note you had written. She wrote it—Ruth!"
All of a sudden Martin realized that the hunchback's presence by his side was a mystery. For the first time his eyes began to critically inspect his companion. Revealed in the lantern light, Little Billy was a truly pitiful figure, coatless, shoeless, clad only in sea-soiled trousers and singlet. The twisted, meager frame slumped dejectedly, the face was haggard with fatigue and worry, the eyes deep-sunken, distrait.
"What happened, Billy? You—how did you get ashore?" began Martin.
"Swam," was the succinct reply. "Never mind me. Just now, you talk. What are conditions aboard? How many of us are left? The note—the plan—to retake the ship?"
"Yes, I think so. The crew—I'll explain, Billy. But this place—" The distant roar was audible again, and, despite himself, Martin fell to trembling. "Let us get out of here," he urged Little Billy. "Back to the beach—where we can see the ship."
"We can't show ourselves on the beach," said the Other. "Winters' cave—did you discover it?"
Martin nodded. The dry cave overhead—that was the place. He did not relish recrossing the ledge by the chasm edge at that moment; he did not think he could do it without falling in. And Winters' cave, if he recalled aright the description, had an outlook over the bay.
He motioned Little Billy to hold the lantern, while he bent over to inspect Ichi. A dim idea was at work in Martin's mind; not yet clear cut, not yet a reasoned plan. It concerned Ichi. If only the little wretch were not dead, or badly injured, as he feared. The man had lain there so motionless; he seemed such an inanimate lump as Martin rolled him over on his back.