Walter was astir early, apparently as well as he had ever been. Hastily dressing he lifted up the bark flap which covered the doorway and stepped out of the wigwam.
The captain was busy cooking breakfast over a rude fireplace of stones, a few feet away, while Chris on the bank by the water was industriously fishing.
The island upon which they were camped was only a couple of acres in extent but rose high above the water. It was barren of timber, except for a large live oak and one lonely palm which Walter noted with an increasing interest. Some attempt had been made to cultivate the loamy soil, and flourishing little patches of yams, sugar-cane, gourds, and Indian corn testified to its fertility.
"Well, Captain, it doesn't look as if we ran much risk of starving to death," remarked Walter, approaching the old sailor.
"No, thar ain't much danger of that, I allow," said the captain with a heartiness from which all depression of the night before had fled. "Over thar is the place you come in at, Walt," he continued, pointing to the distant fringe of cypress.
Walter looked long and earnestly in the direction indicated. "I can see a thin line of smoke above those tree-tops," he declared finally.
"Aye, I noticed it too," agreed the captain. "'Pears like them friends are going to hang at our heels until they get another chance at us. I wouldn't borrow any uneasiness if it weren't for that Injin bein' in the party. I warrant he's found out already that the Injins are all gone, an' is layin' his plans accordingly."
"Well, they can't get to us without boats," said Walter, hopefully.
"No, but they can make one if they are determined enough," observed the captain, gravely. "I sorter calculate to paddle up near enough to them to-day to learn what kind of mischief they are up to."
"I'll go with you," said Walter, eagerly.