"So much for Madagascar," ejaculated the Wireless Officer. "I'm a rotten bad navigator. Wonder where this show is, and if it is inhabited."
For the most part the island consisted of a fairly level plateau covered with scrub. The southern part was well wooded with palms, while the course of the little stream was marked by a double line of reeds.
In vain Peter looked for signs of human habitation. Not so much as a solitary column of smoke marked the presence of any inhabitants.
"This is out of the frying-pan into the fire with a vengeance," said the Wireless Officer to himself. "We've plenty of fresh water, it is true, but precious little to eat. And the boat is beyond repair with the limited means at our disposal. Fire, did I say? We can obtain that, so the possibility of having to eat raw or sun-dried fish is removed."
By this time the rest of the temporary sojourners on the island were astir. From his lofty point of vantage Peter could see the three Mohammedans at their devotions at some distance from the tents. Mrs. Shallop was actually out and about, and had deigned to fetch a balerful of water. Miss Baird had thrown fresh driftwood and kelp on the fire, and was apparently undertaking the frying of some of the fish. Propped up on a roll of painted canvas was Preston, slowly and steadily gutting the herrings before grilling them in front of the fire.
"Hello, old man!" exclaimed Peter, when he rejoined the others and had greeted Miss Baird. "Feeling better?"
"Much thanks," replied the Acting Chief. "Soon be O.K., I hope. And what have you been doing, Sparks?"
"Taking my bearings," said Mostyn. "My festive chum, I've made a hash of things. We're on an island."
"Madagascar is an island," remarked Preston. "So why make a song about it?"
"This isn't Madagascar," replied Peter. "It's a small island. A fellow ought to be able to walk right round it in a couple of hours comfortably."