They soon came to a small grove of cocoanut palms, where Blake threw down his club and bow and handed his burning-glass to Miss Leslie.
“Here,” he said; “you and Win start a fire. It’s early yet, but I’m thinking we’ll all be ready enough for oyster stew.”
“How about the meat?” asked Miss Leslie.
“Keep that till later. Here goes for our dessert.”
Selecting one of the smaller palms, Blake spat on his hands, and began to climb the slender trunk. Aided by previous experiences, he mounted steadily to the top. The descent was made with even more care and steadiness, for he did not wish to tear the skin from his hands again.
“Now, Win,” he said, as he neared the bottom and sprang down, “leave the cooking to Miss Leslie, and husk some of those nuts. You won’t more’n have time to do it before the stew is ready.”
Winthrope’s response was to draw out his penknife. Blake stretched himself at ease in the shade, but kept a critical eye on his companions. Although Winthrope’s fingers trembled with weakness, he worked with a precision and rapidity that drew a grunt of approval from Blake. Presently Miss Leslie, who had been stirring the stew with a twig, threw in a little salt, and drew the pot from the fire.
“En avant, gentlemen! Dinner is served,” she called gayly.
“What’s that?” demanded Blake. “Oh; sure. Hold on, Miss Jenny. You’ll dump it all.”
He wrapped a wisp of grass about the pot, and filled the three cocoanut bowls. The stew was boiling hot; but they fished up the oysters with the bamboo forks that Blake had carved some days since. By the time the oysters were eaten, the liquor in the bowl was cool enough to drink. The process was repeated until the pot had been emptied of its contents.