“That’ll do,” he said. “Come here and show me that knife.”
“I’ll show it you where it will do the most good,” muttered Winthrope, rising hastily to repel the expected attack.
“So you’ve got a little sand, too,” said Blake, almost good-naturedly. “Say, that’s not so bad. We’ll call it quits on the matches. Though how you could go and throw them away–”
“Deuce take it, man! How should I know? I’ve never before been in a wreck.”
“Neither have I–this kind. But I tell you, we’ve got to keep our think tanks going. It’s a guess if we see to-morrow, and that’s no joke. Now do you wonder I got hot?”
“Indeed, no! I’ve been an ass, and here’s my hand to it–if you really mean it’s quits.”
“It’s quits all right, long as you don’t run out of sand,” responded Blake, and he gripped the other’s soft hand until the Englishman winced. “So; that’s settled. I’ve got a hot temper, but I don’t hold grudges. Now, where’re your fish?”
“I–well, they were all spoiled.”
“Spoiled?”
“The sun had shrivelled them.”