The Great Douvre was his dwelling; the Durande was his workshop.
Nothing was more simple for him than going to and fro, ascending and descending.
He dropped down easily by the knotted cord on to the deck.
The day’s work was a good one, the enterprise had begun well; he was satisfied, and began to feel hungry.
He untied his basket of provisions, opened his knife, cut a slice of smoked beef, took a bite out of his brown loaf, drank a draught from his can of fresh water, and supped admirably.
To do well and eat well are two satisfactions. A full stomach resembles an easy conscience.
This supper was ended, and there was still before him a little more daylight. He took advantage of it to begin the lightening of the wreck—an urgent necessity.
He had passed part of the day in gathering up the fragments. He put on one side, in the strong compartment which contained the machine, all that might become of use to him, such as wood, iron, cordage, and canvas. What was useless he cast into the sea.
The cargo of the sloop hoisted on to the deck by the capstan, compact as he had made it, was an encumbrance. Gilliatt surveyed the species of niche, at a height within his reach, in the side of the Little Douvre. These natural closets, not shut in, it is true, are often seen in the rocks. It struck him that it was possible to trust some stores to this depôt, and he accordingly placed in the back of the recess his two boxes containing his tools and his clothing, and his two bags holding the rye-meal and the biscuit. In the front—a little too near the edge perhaps, but he had no other place—he rested his basket of provisions.
He had taken care to remove from the box of clothing his sheepskin, his loose coat with a hood, and his waterproof overalls.