It became evident that Samatan was an expert with a sail. The breeze picked up and the sea became choppy, but the smiling old man, eyes squinting, lay back at ease. Pulling first at one rope, then another, he held the small craft on her course.
Johnny laughed right out loud when at last the old man took off his soft, loose shoes, gripped the ropes with his toes and began steering with his feet.
Two delightful hours passed. Then the dugout slid up on a sandy shore.
When the boat had been pulled up, Samatan’s eyes scanned the sandy beach. Suddenly he went racing away and, with the silence and speed of a great cat, stole up on an unsuspecting turtle, basking in the sand. A quick leap—and the turtle lay on its back, a prisoner.
“Food,” said the old man. “Much food from the sea. But,” he added quietly, “we take only what we need.”
When all the turtles needed had been stowed away in the boat, they went for a walk on the beach. They made a strange picture, this bright-faced American boy and the old, brown native whose face was wrinkled by many tropical suns.
Seldom had Johnny spent a more interesting or exciting morning. They hung a heavy cord over a rocky ledge to snare a sea-crab, turned over a Hawk’s-bill turtle, whose shell was worth eight dollars a pound, and chased a monkey up a cocoanut tree.
They had wandered for two hours and were far from the boat when, for no apparent reason, Samatan uttered a low exclamation. Then he faced squarely toward the ridge, which at this place rose some twenty feet above the beach.
“Huh!” he grunted. “We see!”
He dashed away at surprising speed, up the hill. Tripping over vines and blundering into a bramble bush, Johnny followed.