"I've remarked it. What do you suppose they intend to do with us?"
"Maroon us, likely, if we let them, on the island yonder."
"How can we prevent them? But I think not. It's my belief this meat is poisoned!"
"Tastes vile enough," agreed Maclean, but he went on eating, and Robert Sievers, after a momentary hesitation, followed suit.
"We're in the devil of a hole!" he muttered, his mouth full of biscuit. Then he swore horribly, for the match had burned his fingers.
Maclean stood up. "Any of you men happen to have a bit of candle in your pockets?" he demanded.
Silence for a minute, then a Norwegian fireman spoke up. "Bout dree inches," he said.
"He eats 'em," cried another voice, and a roar of laughter greeted the announcement.
"Pass it here," commanded Maclean.
Sievers struck another match, and presently the steady flame of a candle stump showed Maclean a picture such as Gustave Doré would have loved to paint. He glanced at the begrimed faces of the Saigon's wild and ghastly looking company, and beyond them for a moment, then stumbled over the coal, followed by Sievers, until he was brought up by the iron partition of the hold. He made, however, straight for the bulkhead, and stooping down, held the candle close to the line of bolts covering the propeller's tunnel.