Bobby altered his plans. Instead of "turning in"—he had been sleeping on board the Titania since his brother's accident—he went on deck and dropped into the skiff dinghy, which was lying at the lower boom. Then, taking to the oars, he rowed silently towards the shore.
It was a calm, moonless night. Overhead the stars blazed like points of fire, their reflections scintillating on the smooth surface of the lagoon.
He landed on the coral beach, dug the fluke of the boat's anchor firmly into the ground, and made his way toward the encampment. A hurricane-lamp was still burning in the tent shared by Claverhouse, Trevear, and Swaine.
"Hallo!" exclaimed the former in some surprise. "What brings you ashore this time o' night?"
"Shop, old bird," replied Bobby.
"Let rip, then," rejoined Alec, in mock tones of resignation. "Thought, perhaps, you came to borrow my safety-razor."
"You two fellows both saw the wreck, I suppose," said Beverley, addressing the airmen. "What shape did it appear like?"
"Where's a pencil?" inquired Trevear, fumbling in the breast-pocket of his white drill tunic. "Right-o. Paper's scarce in this part of the world, so I'll sketch it on the table. There you are."
"Yes; that's like it," agreed Alec.
"You've drawn the plan of a boat," continued Bobby. "Swaine swears she's lying on her beam ends."