“Perhaps not even that,” said Pant, “but they may be very hard miles to travel.”
“If we only were there,” sighed Johnny. “There is sure to be coal on the wreck.”
“But, since we’re not, let’s explore our island,” suggested Pant.
“And sleep,” said Johnny. “I’m about to fall asleep as I walk.”
“Better bring the rifles,” suggested Pant. “Doesn’t seem likely that there is a single living soul on this island—it’s no more than a coral rock sticking up out of the sea; can’t be two miles long—but you never can tell.”
Johnny brought two rifles from the plane. After rubbing the moisture from their barrels, he slipped a handful of cartridges in each, and set them up in the bow of the boat.
Pant had already gathered up an armful of sacks and cans, enough food for a day ashore. Throwing these into the bottom of the boat, he exclaimed: “All aboard for no man’s land.”
Then all climbed in. Johnny took the oars. Ten minutes of rowing brought them ashore.
It was a strange sensation that came to them as they stepped on solid ground once more. They had been swinging and tossing about for so long that solid earth seemed unreal—only part of a dream.
“Don’t see a sign of life,” said Johnny as he glanced up and down the beach, then into the depths of the palms.