I was nearly famished when we reached the steamer, for I had had nothing since early morning but a ham sandwich I had put in my pocket. The bag of provisions intended for consumption on the way had been carried by the Chinese cook, and at the moment of parting I had thought nothing of the commissariat, which was extremely poor generalship on my part, and an omission which caused me sorrow later in the day.
Sitting in the boat after my exertions left me so stiff and unwieldy that one of the sailors had to help me up the side, and, stepping on deck, I staggered, and would have fallen if he had not caught me. The waning moon had risen, but the light was not strong. I saw a shadowy figure make for the companion-way, then stop with a little cry, and run forward to where I stood.
“You are wounded, Mr. Tremorne!” she cried.
“No, Miss Stretton, I am all right, except my arm, and its disablement is rather a joke than otherwise.”
“He is wounded, is he not, Mr. Hemster?” appealed the girl, as the old man came up the gangway.
“Tut, tut, child! You should have been in bed long ago! He isn’t wounded, but he’s nearly starved to death through our taking away all the provisions with us when we deserted him.”
“Oh, dear!” she cried. “Then you didn’t find the bag.”
“What bag?” I asked.
“When we were having lunch Mr. Hemster remembered that you were unprovided for, so we raised a cairn of stones by the wayside and left a bag of provisions on top of it, hoping you would recognize it, for Mr. Hemster felt sure you would win through somehow or other. You would be extremely flattered, Mr. Tremorne, if you knew what faith he has in you.”