To his great joy, half way there he came upon a cluster of banana plants growing in a narrow run.
A small stream went trickling and tumbling down the center of the run. Taking a collapsible drinking cup from his pocket, he bent over a pool to fill the cup, then started in surprise. In the soft sand by the pool was the fresh imprint of a bare foot.
“They’ve been on our side of the ridge,” he told himself. “Half way down the slope. I wonder if they saw us?” This discovery disturbed him. One never could tell about natives in these wild islands.
The water was fresh and cold.
“Umm! Cold spring!” he murmured. “Water supply.” He made a mental note—he must follow that stream back to its source.
When he arrived at the banana patch, he discovered more evidence of their visitors, if they might be called that. One banana plant was minus a freshly cut bunch of bananas.
Selecting a fine bunch that was still green, he cut it off with a sheath knife, shouldered it, and went back down the ridge.
“We’re not alone here,” he said, when he reached camp.
“How come?” Stew asked.
“Natives beat us here. I saw two of them. They had our rooster. But I got some bananas.”