“Hurroar!” cried Mr. Feeny.
“Well done, my men!—very well done, indeed!” said Mr. MacCandlish.
“Splendid, true lads,—all of them!” murmured the bishop.
“If you'll step lively, sir, we'll have you dry shod on terry-firmy in a jiffy!” said Feeny.
Within an hour after they had effected a landing it had been definitely ascertained that the island was not inhabited.
“That bein' the case,” said Mr. Feeny, “I think I would best put the b'ys to work fetchin' off supplies. What do you think, sir?”
“Oh, by all means.” It was Mr. MacCandlish who answered him. He and his friends were peacefully resting in the shade of a group of palms. “And will you have an eye to our personal belongings? Our trunks and hand-bags, I mean?”
“I'll have them fetched off immediate,” said Mr. Feeny.
All that afternoon he and his mates tugged at boxes and bales, or sweated at the oars. At dusk they stopped for a bite to eat, and to rig up a shelter of awnings for the millionaires.
“I'm doubtful about the weather,” Mr. Feeny explained as he came up from the boat, his shoulders piled high with mattresses. “And bein' as there's a full moon to-night, we'll just bring off what more of the stores we can.”