“I should like to see it,” said Grim, stooping and thrusting his head and shoulders into the hole.
“What have you got there?” asked Bolton, as Grim drew back and held up something in his hand.
“Don’t know exactly. It’s like a bit o’ cloth.” On examination the article was found to be a shred of coarse cloth, of a blue or black colour, and, being an unexpected substance to meet with in such a place, Bolton turned round with it to Meetuck in the hope of obtaining some information. But Meetuck was gone. While the sailors were breaking into the grave, Meetuck had stood aloof with a displeased expression of countenance, as if he were angry at the rude desecration of a countryman’s tomb; but the moment his eye fell on the shred of cloth an expression of mingled surprise and curiosity crossed his countenance, and without uttering a word he slipped noiselessly into the hole, from which he almost immediately issued bearing several articles in his hand. These he held up to view, and with animated words and gesticulations explained that this was the grave of a white man, not of a native.
The articles he brought out were a pewter plate and a silver table-spoon.
“There’s a name of some kind written here,” said Bolton, as he carefully scrutinised the spoon. “Look here, Fred, your eyes are better than mine; see if you can make it out.”
Fred took it with a trembling hand, for a strange feeling of dread had seized possession of his heart, and he could scarcely bring himself to look upon it. He summoned up courage, however, but at the first glance his hand fell down by his side, and a dimness came over his eyes, for the word “Pole Star” was engraven on the handle. He would have fallen to the ground had not Bolton caught him.
“Don’t give way, lad, the ship may be all right. Perhaps this is one o’ the crew that died.”
Fred did not answer, but, recovering himself with a strong effort, he said: “Pull down the stones, men.”
The men obeyed in silence, and the poor boy sat down on a rock to await the result in trembling anxiety. A few minutes sufficed to disentomb the skeleton, for the men sympathised with their young comrade, and worked with all their energies.
“Cheer up, Fred,” said Bolton, coming and laying his hand on the youth’s shoulder, “it’s not your father. There is a bit of black hair sticking to the scalp.”