Not from feelings of compunction did he pause; he was a coward at heart, and the thought of a possible failure filled him with a horrible dread. So, nervously sawing at the tiller, he gnawed his lower lip and formed fresh plans for evil.
Meanwhile Mr. McKay, unconscious of his peril, proceeded with his preparations. He deeply regretted the fact that the case of surgical instruments salved from the San Martin was at that moment—like the Dutchman's anchor—left at home, or rather on McKay's Island. In the final hurry of embarkation that important item had been overlooked.
Grasping the glowing portion of the cleaning rod, Mr. McKay approached the unconscious lad. Once more telling the other two lads to hold the patient's arm firmly, he inserted the red-hot metal into the wound.
It was the work of a few seconds, but the operation of cauterising the wound was accomplished. Time alone would tell whether this rude surgery was a success or not.
An hour later the low-lying island of Ni Atong was in sight, and just before sunset the yawl and her two native consorts entered the lagoon.
It was a pitiful home-coming. The miserable remnant of the fleet of canoes told the tale, and already the beach was lined with a crowd of wailing women and crying children, with a sprinkling of old men, whose services had been dispensed with on the fatal expedition.
The latter had good cause for being cast down.
In many of the Pacific Islands old age is looked upon as a useless qualification, and, failing a crowd of prisoners to serve as sacrifices and to appease the warriors' appetites, it was their aged and infirm fellow-tribesmen who were doomed to die to keep the angry gods good-tempered.
"Coming ashore, boss?" asked Blight, as if he did not care one way or the other. "I can give you a shakedown in my hut."
"I'm afraid we cannot manage it," was the reply. "You see, with our two patients it is out of the question."