Whoever he was, the man had been trying to build a boat.
“I wonder what prevented him,” said Bill.
“What’s that sticking up there?” I asked, pointing to a piece of wood among the undergrowth.
“Why, the handle of an adze,” answered Tom.
Looking at this, we soon found the reason why the unfortunate man had desisted from his work, and probably the cause of his death.
The rusty iron of the adze had stuck deep in a plank, and lying by it were some small bones, which it did not need any knowledge of anatomy to see belonged to a human foot.
Evidently the unfortunate creature had chopped off a part of his foot while engaged in fashioning a piece of wood, and had managed to get back to his hut to die.
“Poor fellow,” said Bill and I in a breath; “he never could have built a craft here, and launched her through that surf.”
“No,” answered thoughtful Tom Arbor, “but he may have intended to build her on the other side, and only shaped the parts here, so as to have less weight to carry or drag across; but, anyway, his death is our good fortune, for we can deck and rig our boat for sea-going from what is here. If I mistake not we need it, for there’s never an island on that chart within three hundred miles of us; and if there are any nearer, they’re likely but places like this, with ne’er a living soul aboard of them.”
“Well, what do you intend to do?” I asked.