“It Can’t Be that You Want to Go Back to All
Those Society Shams, After You’ve Seen Real Life!”

INTO
THE PRIMITIVE

By ROBERT AMES BENNET

AUTHOR OF

“For the White Christ,” “Thyra,” Etc.

With Frontispiece in Colors
By ALLEN T. TRUE

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1908

Published April 11, 1908
Second Edition, May 9, 1908
Third Edition, Aug. 1, 1908

By Mr. Bennet

A. C. McClurg & Co., Publishers

Into the Primitive

CHAPTER I
WAVE-TOSSED AND CASTAWAY

The beginning was at Cape Town, when Blake and Winthrope boarded the steamer as fellow passengers with Lady Bayrose and her party.

This was a week after Winthrope had arrived on the tramp steamer from India, and her Ladyship had explained to Miss Leslie that it was as well for her not to be too hasty in accepting his attentions. To be sure, he was an Englishman, his dress and manners were irreproachable, and he was in the prime of ripened youth. Yet Lady Bayrose was too conscientious a chaperon to be fully satisfied with her countryman’s bare assertion that he was engaged on a diplomatic mission requiring reticence regarding his identity. She did not see why this should prevent him from confiding in her.

Notwithstanding this, Winthrope came aboard ship virtually as a member of her Ladyship’s party. He was so quick, so thoughtful of her comfort, and paid so much more attention to her than to Miss Leslie, that her Ladyship had decided to tolerate him, even before Blake became a factor in the situation.

From the moment he crossed the gangway the American engineer entered upon a daily routine of drinking and gambling, varied only by attempts to strike up an off-hand acquaintance with Miss Leslie. This was Winthrope’s opportunity, and his clever frustration of what Lady Bayrose termed “that low bounder’s impudence” served to install him in the good graces of her Ladyship as well as in the favor of the American heiress.

Such, at least, was what Winthrope intimated to the persistent engineer with a superciliousness of tone and manner that would have stung even a British lackey to resentment. To Blake it was supremely galling. He could not rejoin in kind, and the slightest attempt at physical retort would have meant irons and confinement. It was a British ship. Behind Winthrope was Lady Bayrose; behind her Ladyship, as a matter of course, was all the despotic authority of the captain. In the circumstances, it was not surprising that the American drank heavier after each successive goading.

Meantime the ship, having touched at Port Natal, steamed on up the East Coast, into the Mozambique Channel.

On the day of the cyclone, Blake had withdrawn into his stateroom with a number of bottles, and throughout that fearful afternoon was blissfully unconscious of the danger. Even when the steamer went on the reef, he was only partially roused by the shock.

He took a long pull from a quart flask of whiskey, placed the flask with great care in his hip pocket, and lurched out through the open doorway. There he reeled headlong against the mate, who had rushed below with three of the crew to bring up Miss Leslie. The mate cursed him virulently, and in the same breath ordered two of the men to fetch him up on deck.

The sea was breaking over the steamer in torrents; but between waves Blake was dragged across to the side and flung over into the bottom of the one remaining boat. He served as a cushion to break the fall of Miss Leslie, who was tossed in after him. At the same time, Winthrope, frantic with fear, scrambled into the bows and cut loose. One of the sailors leaped, but fell short and went down within arm’s length of Miss Leslie.

She and Winthrope saw the steamer slip from the reef and sink back into deep water, carrying down in the vortex the mate and the few remaining sailors. After that all was chaos to them. They were driven ashore before the terrific gusts of the cyclone, blinded by the stinging spoondrift to all else but the hell of breakers and coral reefs in whose midst they swirled so dizzily. And through it all Blake lay huddled on the bottom boards, gurgling blithely of spicy zephyrs and swaying hammocks.

There came the seemingly final moment when the boat went spinning stern over prow. . . . .

Half sobered, Blake opened his eyes and stared solemnly about him. He was given little time to take his bearings. A smother of broken surf came seething up from one of the great breakers, to roll him over and scrape him a little farther up the muddy shore. There the flood deposited him for a moment, until it could gather force to sweep back and drag him down again toward the roaring sea that had cast him up.

Blake objected,–not to the danger of being drowned, but to interference with his repose. He had reached the obstinate stage. He grunted a protest. . . . . Again the flood seethed up the shore, and rolled him away from the danger. This was too much! He set his jaw, turned over, and staggered to his feet. Instantly one of the terrific wind-blasts struck his broad back and sent him spinning for yards. He brought up in a shallow pool, beside a hummock.

Under the lee of the knoll lay Winthrope and Miss Leslie. Though conscious, both were draggled and bruised and beaten to exhaustion. They were together because they had come ashore together. When the boat capsized, Miss Leslie had been flung against the Englishman, and they had held fast to each other with the desperate clutch of drowning persons. Neither of them ever recalled how they gained the shelter of the hummock.

Blake, sitting waist-deep in the pool, blinked at them benignly with his pale blue eyes, and produced the quart flask, still a third full of whiskey.

“I shay, fren’s,” he observed, “ha’ one on me. Won’ cos’ you shent–notta re’ shent!”

“You fuddled lout!” shouted Winthrope. “Come out of that pool.”

“Wassama’er pool! Pool’s allri’!”

The Englishman squinted through the driving scud at the intoxicated man with an anxious frown. In all probability he felt no commiseration for the American; but it was no light matter to be flung up barehanded on the most unhealthful and savage stretch of the Mozambique coast, and Blake might be able to help them out of their predicament. To leave him in the pool was therefore not to be thought of. So soon as he had drained his bottle, he would lie down, and that would be the end of him. As any attempt to move him forcibly was out of the question, the situation demanded that Winthrope justify his intimations of diplomatic training. After considering the problem for several minutes, he met it in a way that proved he was at least not lacking in shrewdness and tact.

“See here, Blake,” he called, in another lull between the shrieking gusts, “the lady is fatigued. You’re too much of a gentleman to ask her to come over there.”

It required some moments for this to penetrate Blake’s fuddled brain. After a futile attempt to gain his feet, he crawled out of the pool on all fours, and, with tears in his eyes, pressed his flask upon Miss Leslie. She shrank away from him, shuddering, and drew herself up in a huddle of flaccid limbs and limp garments. Winthrope, however, not only accepted the flask, but came near to draining it.

Blake squinted at the diminished contents, hesitated, and cast a glance of maudlin gallantry at Miss Leslie. She lay coiled, closer than before, in a draggled heap. Her posture suggested sleep. Blake stared at her, the flask extended waveringly before him. Then he brought it to his lips, and drained out the last drop.

“Time turn in,” he mumbled, and sprawled full length in the brackish ooze. Immediately he fell into a drunken stupor.

Winthrope, invigorated by the liquor, rose to his knees, and peered around. It was impossible to face the scud and spoondrift from the furious sea; but to leeward he caught a glimpse of a marsh flooded with salt water, its reedy vegetation beaten flat by the storm. He himself was beaten down by a terrific gust. Panting and trembling, he waited for the wind to lull, in hope that he might obtain a clearer view of his surroundings. Before he again dared rise to his feet, darkness swept down with tropical suddenness and blurred out everything.

The effect of the whiskey soon passed, and Winthrope huddled between his companions, drenched and exhausted. Though he could hear Miss Leslie moaning, he was too miserable himself to inquire whether he could do anything for her.

Presently he became aware that the wind was falling. The centre of the cyclone had passed before the ship struck, and they were now in the outermost circle of the vast whirlwind. With the consciousness of this change for the better, Winthrope’s fear-racked nerves relaxed, and he fell into a heavy sleep.

CHAPTER II
WORSE THAN WILDERNESS

A wail from Miss Leslie roused the Englishman out of a dream in which he had been swimming for life across a sea of boiling oil. He sat up and gazed about him, half dazed. The cyclone had been followed by a dead calm, and the sun, already well above the horizon, was blazing upon them over the glassy surfaces of the dying swells with fierce heat.

Winthrope felt about for his hat. It had been blown off when, at the striking of the steamer, he had rushed up on deck. As he remembered, he straightened, and looked at his companions. Blake lay snoring where he had first outstretched himself, sleeping the sleep of the just–and of the drunkard. The girl, however, was already awake. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, while the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

“My–ah–dear Miss Genevieve, what is the matter?” exclaimed Winthrope.

“Matter? Do you ask, when we are here on this wretched coast, and may not get away for weeks? Oh, I did so count on the London season this year! Lady Bayrose promised that I should be among those presented.”

“Well, I–ah–fancy, Lady Bayrose will do no more presenting–unless it may be to the heavenly choir, you know.”

“Why, what do you mean, Mr. Winthrope? You told me that she and the maids had been put in the largest boat–”

“My dear Miss Genevieve, you must remember that I am a diplomat. It was all quite sufficiently harrowing, I assure you. They were, indeed, put into the largest boat–Beastly muddle!–While they waited for the mate to fetch you, the boat was crushed alongside, and all in it drowned.”

“Drowned!–drowned! Oh, dear Lady Bayrose! And she’d travelled so much–oh, oh, it is horrible! Why did she persuade me to visit the Cape? It was only to be with her–And then for us to start off for India, when we might have sailed straight to England! Oh, it is horrible! horrible! And my maid, and all–It cannot be possible!”

“Pray, do not excite yourself, my dear Miss Genevieve. Their troubles are all over. Er–Gawd has taken them to Him, you know.”

“But the pity of it! To be drowned–so far from home!”

“Ah, if that’s all you’re worrying about!–I must say I’d like to know how we’ll get a snack for breakfast. I’m hungry as a–er–groom.”

“Eating! How can you think of eating, Mr. Winthrope–and all the others drowned? This sun is becoming dreadfully hot. It is unbearable! Can you not put up some kind of an awning?”

“Well, now, I must say, I was never much of a hand at such things, and really I can’t imagine what one could rig up. There might have been a bit of sail in the boat, but one can’t see a sign of it. I fancy it was smashed.”

Miss Leslie ventured a glance at Blake. Though still lying as he had sprawled in his drunkenness, there was a comforting suggestion of power in his broad shoulders and square jaw.

“Is he still–in that condition?”

“Must have slept it off by this time, and there’s no more in the flask,” answered Winthrope. Reaching over with his foot, he pushed against Blake’s back.

“Huh! All right,” grunted the sleeper, and sat up, as had Winthrope, half dazed. Then he stared around him, and rose to his feet. “Well, what in hell! Say, this is damn cheerful!”

“I fancy we are in a nasty fix. But I say, my man, there is a woman present, and your language, you know–”

Blake turned and fixed the Englishman with a cold stare.

“Look here, you bloomin’ lud,” he said, “there’s just one thing you’re going to understand, right here and now. I’m not your man, and we’re not going to have any of that kind of blatter. Any fool can see we’re in a tight hole, and we’re like to keep company for a while–probably long as we last.”

“What–ah–may I ask, do you mean by that?”

Blake laughed harshly, and pointed from the reef-strewn sea to the vast stretches of desolate marsh. Far inland, across miles of brackish lagoons and reedy mud-flats, could be seen groups of scrubby, half-leafless trees; ten or twelve miles to the southward a rocky headland jutted out into the water; otherwise there was nothing in sight but sea and swamp. If it could not properly be termed a sea-view, it was at least a very wet landscape.

“Fine prospect,” remarked Blake, dryly. “We’ll be in luck if the fever don’t get the last of us inside a month; and as for you two, you’d have as much show of lasting a month as a toad with a rattlesnake, if it wasn’t for Tom Blake,–that’s my name–Tom Blake,–and as long as this shindy lasts, you’re welcome to call me Tom or Blake, whichever suits. But understand, we’re not going to have any more of your bloody, bloomin’ English condescension. Aboard ship you had the drop on me, and could pile on dog till the cows came home. Here I’m Blake, and you’re Winthrope.”

“Believe me, Mr. Blake, I quite appreciate the–ah–situation. And now, I fancy that, instead of wasting time–”

“It’s about time you introduced me to the lady,” interrupted Blake, and he stared at them half defiantly, yet with a twinkle in his eyes.

Miss Leslie flushed. Winthrope swore softly, and bit his lip. Aboard ship, backed by Lady Bayrose and the captain, he had goaded the American at pleasure. Now, however, the situation was reversed. Both title and authority had been swept away by the storm, and he was left to shift for himself against the man who had every reason to hate him for his overbearing insolence. Worse still, both he and Miss Leslie were now dependent upon the American, in all probability for life itself. It was a bitter pill and hard to swallow.

Blake was not slow to observe the Englishman’s hesitancy. He grinned.

“Every dog has his day, and I guess this is mine,” he said. “Take your time, if it comes hard. I can imagine it’s a pretty stiff dose for your ludship. But why in–why in frozen hades an American lady should object to an introduction to a countryman who’s going to do his level best to save her pretty little self from the hyenas–well, it beats me.”

Winthrope flushed redder than the girl.

“Miss Leslie, Mr. Blake,” he murmured, hoping to put an end to the situation.

But yet Blake persisted. He bowed, openly exultant.

“You see, Miss,” he said, “I know the correct thing quite as much as your swells. I knew all along you were Jenny Leslie. I ran a survey for your dear papa when he was manipulating the Q. T. Railroad, and he did me out of my pay.”

“Oh, but Mr. Blake, I am sure it must be a mistake; I am sure that if it is explained to papa–”

“Yes; we’ll cable papa to-night. Meantime, we’ve something else to do. Suppose you two get a hustle on yourselves, and scrape up something to eat. I’m going out to see what’s left of that blamed old tub.”

“Surely you’ll not venture to swim out so far!” protested Winthrope. “I saw the steamer sink as we cast off.”

“Looks like a mast sticking up out there. Maybe some of the rigging is loose.”

“But the sharks! These waters swarm with the vile creatures. You must not risk your life!”

“’Cause why? If I do, the babes in the woods will be left without even the robins to cover them, poor things! But cheer up!–maybe the mud-hens will do it with lovely water-lilies.”

“Please, Mr. Blake, do not be so cruel!” sobbed Miss Leslie, her tears starting afresh. “The sun makes my head ache dreadfully, and I have no hat or shade, and I’m becoming so thirsty!”

“And you think you’ve only to wait, and half a dozen stewards will come running with parasols and ice water. Neither you nor Winthrope seem to ’ve got your eyes open. Just suppose you get busy and do something. Winthrope, chase yourself over the mud, and get together a mess of fish that are not too dead. Must be dozens, after the blow. As for you, Miss Jenny, I guess you can pick up some reeds, and rig a headgear out of this handkerchief– Wait a moment. Put on my coat, if you don’t want to be broiled alive through the holes of that peek-a-boo.”

“But I say, Blake–” began Winthrope.

“Don’t say–do!” rejoined Blake; and he started down the muddy shore.

Though the tide was at flood, there was now no cyclone to drive the sea above the beach, and Blake walked a quarter of a mile before he reached the water’s edge. There was little surf, and he paused only a few moments to peer out across the low swells before he commenced to strip.

Winthrope and Miss Leslie had been watching his movements; now the girl rose in a little flurry of haste, and set to gathering reeds. Winthrope would have spoken, but, seeing her embarrassment, smiled to himself, and began strolling about in search of fish.

It was no difficult search. The marshy ground was strewn with dead sea-creatures, many of which were already shrivelling and drying in the sun. Some of the fish had a familiar look, and Winthrope turned them over with the tip of his shoe. He even went so far as to stoop to pick up a large mullet; but shrank back, repulsed by its stiffness and the unnatural shape into which the sun was warping it.

He found himself near the beach, and stood for half an hour or more watching the black dot far out in the water,–all that was to be seen of Blake. The American, after wading off-shore another quarter of a mile, had reached swimming depth, and was heading out among the reefs with steady, vigorous strokes. Half a mile or so beyond him Winthrope could now make out the goal for which he was aiming,–the one remaining topmast of the steamer.

“By Jove, these waters are full of sharks!” murmured Winthrope, staring at the steadily receding dot until it disappeared behind the wall of surf which spumed up over one of the outer reefs.

A call from Miss Leslie interrupted his watch, and he hastened to rejoin her. After several failures, she had contrived to knot Blake’s handkerchief to three or four reeds in the form of a little sunshade. Her shoulders were protected by Blake’s coat. It made a heavy wrap, but it shut out the blistering sun-rays, which, as Blake had foreseen, had quickly begun to burn the girl’s delicate skin through her open-work bodice.

Thus protected, she was fairly safe from the sun. But the sun was by no means the worst feature of the situation. While Winthrope was yet several yards distant, the girl began to complain to him. “I’m so thirsty, Mr. Winthrope! Where is there any water? Please get me a drink at once, Mr. Winthrope!”

“But, my dear Miss Leslie, there is no water. These pools are all sea-water. I must say, I’m deuced dry myself. I can’t see why that cad should go off and leave us like this, when we need him most.”

“Indeed, it is a shame–Oh, I’m so thirsty! Do you think it would help if we ate something?”

“Make it all the worse. Besides, how could we cook anything? All these reeds are green, or at least water-soaked.”

“But Mr, Blake said to gather some fish. Had you not best–”

“He can pick up all he wants. I shall not touch the beastly things.”

“Then I suppose there is nothing to do but wait for him.”

“Yes, if the sharks do not get him.”

Miss Leslie uttered a little moan, and Winthrope, seeing that she was on the verge of tears, hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry about him, Miss Genevieve! He’ll soon return, with nothing worse than a blistered back. Fellows of that sort are born to hang, you know.”

“But if he should be–if anything should happen to him!”

Winthrope shrugged his shoulders, and drew out his silver cigarette case. It was more than half full, and he was highly gratified to find that neither the cigarettes nor the vesta matches in the cover had been reached by the wet.

“By Jove, here’s luck!” he exclaimed, and he bowed to Miss Leslie. “Pardon me, but if you have no objections–”

The girl nodded as a matter of form, and Winthrope hastened to light the cigarette already in his fingers. The smoke by no means tended to lessen the dryness of his mouth; yet it put him in a reflective mood, and in thinking over what he had read of shipwrecked parties, he remembered that a pebble held in the mouth is supposed to ease one’s thirst.

To be sure, there was not a sign of a pebble within miles of where they sat; but after some reflection, it occurred to him that one of his steel keys might do as well. At first Miss Leslie was reluctant to try the experiment, and only the increasing dryness of her mouth forced her to seek the promised relief. Though it failed to quench her thirst, she was agreeably surprised to find that the little flat bar of metal eased her craving to a marked degree.

Winthrope now thought to rig a shade as Miss Leslie had done, out of reeds and his handkerchief, for the sun was scorching his unprotected head. Thus sheltered, the two crouched as comfortably as they could upon the half-dried crest of the hummock, and waited impatiently for the return of Blake.

CHAPTER III
THE WORTH OF FIRE

Though the sea within the reefs was fast smoothing to a glassy plain in the dead calm, they did not see Blake on his return until he struck shallow water and stood up to wade ashore. The tide had begun to ebb before he started landward, and though he was a powerful swimmer, the long pull against the current had so tired him that when he took to wading he moved at a tortoise-like gait.

“The bloomin’ loafer!” commented Winthrope. He glanced quickly about, and at sight of Miss Leslie’s arching brows, hastened to add: “Beg pardon! He–ah–reminds me so much of a navvy, you know.”

Miss Leslie made no reply.

At last Blake was out of the water and toiling up the muddy beach to the spot where he had left his clothes. While dressing he seemed to recover from his exertions in the water, for the moment he had finished, he sprang to his feet and came forward at a brisk pace.

As he approached, Winthrope waved his fifth cigarette at him with languid enthusiasm, and called out as heartily as his dry lips would permit: “I say, Blake, deuced glad the sharks didn’t get you!”

“Sharks?–bah! All you have to do is to splash a little, and they haul off.”

“How about the steamer, Mr. Blake?” asked Miss Leslie, turning to face him.

“All under but the maintopmast–curse it!–wire rigging at that! Couldn’t even get a bolt.”

“A bolt?”

“Not a bolt; and here we are as good as naked on this infernal– Hey, you! what you doing with that match? Light your cigarette–light it!– Damnation!”

Heedless of Blake’s warning cry, Winthrope had struck his last vesta, and now, angry and bewildered, he stood staring while the little taper burned itself out. With an oath, Blake sprang to catch it as it dropped from between Winthrope’s fingers. But he was too far away. It fell among the damp rushes, spluttered, and flared out.

For a moment Blake knelt, staring at the rushes as though stupefied; then he sprang up before Winthrope, his bronzed face purple with anger.

“Where’s your matchbox? Got any more?” he demanded.

“Last one, I fancy–yes; last one, and there are still two cigarettes. But look here, Blake, I can’t tolerate your talking so deucedly–”

“You idiot! you–you– Hell! and every one for cigarettes!”

From a growl Blake’s voice burst into a roar of fury, and he sprang upon Winthrope like a wild beast. His hands closed upon the Englishman’s throat, and he began to shake him about, paying no heed to the blows his victim showered upon his face and body, blows which soon began to lessen in force.

Terror-stricken, Miss Leslie put her hands over her eyes, and began to scream–the piercing shriek that will unnerve the strongest man. Blake paused as though transfixed, and as the half-suffocated Englishman struggled in his grasp, he flung him on the ground, and turned to the screaming girl.

“Stop that squawking!” he said. The girl cowed down. “So; that’s better. Next time keep your mouth shut.”

“You–you brute!”

“Good! You’ve got a little spunk, eh?”

“You coward–to attack a man not half your strength!”

“Steady, steady, young lady! I’m warm enough yet; I’ve still half a mind to wring his fool neck.”

“But why should you be so angry! What has he done, that you–”

“Why–why? Lord! what hasn’t he done! This coast fairly swarms with beasts. We’ve not the smell of a gun; and now this idiot–this dough-head–has gone and thrown away our only chance–fire–and on his measly cigarettes!” Blake choked with returning rage.

Winthrope, still panting for breath, began to creep away, at the same time unclasping a small penknife. He was white with fear; but his gray eyes–which on shipboard Blake had never seen other than offensively supercilious–now glinted in a manner that served to alter the American’s mood.

“That’ll do,” he said. “Come here and show me that knife.”

“I’ll show it you where it will do the most good,” muttered Winthrope, rising hastily to repel the expected attack.

“So you’ve got a little sand, too,” said Blake, almost good-naturedly. “Say, that’s not so bad. We’ll call it quits on the matches. Though how you could go and throw them away–”

“Deuce take it, man! How should I know? I’ve never before been in a wreck.”

“Neither have I–this kind. But I tell you, we’ve got to keep our think tanks going. It’s a guess if we see to-morrow, and that’s no joke. Now do you wonder I got hot?”

“Indeed, no! I’ve been an ass, and here’s my hand to it–if you really mean it’s quits.”

“It’s quits all right, long as you don’t run out of sand,” responded Blake, and he gripped the other’s soft hand until the Englishman winced. “So; that’s settled. I’ve got a hot temper, but I don’t hold grudges. Now, where’re your fish?”

“I–well, they were all spoiled.”

“Spoiled?”

“The sun had shrivelled them.”

“And you call that spoiled! We’re like to eat them rotten before we’re through with this picnic. How about the pools?”

“Pools? Do you know, Blake, I never thought of the pools. I stopped to watch you, and then we were so anxious about you–”

Blake grunted, and turned on his heel to wade into the half-drained pool in whose midst he had been deposited by the hurricane.

Two or three small fish lay faintly wriggling on the surface. As Blake splashed through the water to seize them, his foot struck against a living body which floundered violently and flashed a brilliant forked tail above the muddy water. Blake sprang over the fish, which was entangled in the reeds, and with a kick, flung it clear out upon the ground.

“A coryphene!” cried Winthrope, and he ran forward to stare at the gorgeously colored prize.

“Coryphene?” repeated Blake, following his example. “Good to eat?”

“Fine as salmon. This is only a small one, but–”

“Fifteen pounds, if an ounce!” cried Blake, and he thrust his hand in his pocket. There was a moment’s silence, and Winthrope, glancing up, saw the other staring in blank dismay.

“What’s up!” he asked.

“Lost my knife.”

“When?–in the pool? If we felt about–”

“No; aboard ship, or in the surf–”

“Here is my knife.”

“Yes; almost big enough to whittle a match! Mine would have done us some good.”

“It is the best steel.”

“All right; let’s see you cut up the fish.”

“But you know, Blake, I shouldn’t know how to go about it. I never did such a thing.”

“And you, Miss Jenny? Girls are supposed to know about cooking.”

“I never cooked anything in all my life, Mr. Blake, and it’s alive,–and–and I am very thirsty, Mr. Blake!”

“Lord!” commented Blake. “Give me that knife.”

Though the blade was so small, the American’s hand was strong. After some little haggling, the coryphene was killed and dressed. Blake washed both it and his hands in the pool, and began to cut slices of flesh from the fish’s tail.

“We have no fire,” Winthrope reminded him, flushing at the word.

“That’s true,” assented Blake, in a cheerful tone, and he offered Winthrope two of the pieces of raw flesh. “Here’s your breakfast. The trimmed piece is for Miss Leslie.”

“But it’s raw! Really, I could not think of eating raw fish. Could you, Miss Leslie?”

Miss Leslie shuddered. “Oh, no!–and I’m so thirsty I could not eat anything.”

“You bet you can!” replied Blake. “Both of you take that fish, and go to chewing. It’s the stuff to ease your thirst while we look for water. Good Lord!–in a week you’ll be glad to eat raw snake. Finnicky over clean fish, when you swallow canvas-back all but raw, and beef running blood, and raw oysters with their stomachs full of disintegrated animal matter, to put it politely! You couldn’t tell rattlesnake broth from chicken, and dog makes first-rate veal–when you’ve got to eat it. I’ve had it straight from them that know, that over in France they eat snails and fish-worms. It’s all a matter of custom or the style.”

“To be sure, the Japanese eat raw fish,” admitted Winthrope.

“Yes; and you’d swallow your share of it if you had an invite to a swell dinner in Tokio. Go on now, both of you. It’s no joke, I tell you. You’ve got to eat, if you expect to get to water before night. Understand? See that headland south? Well, it’s a hundred to one we’ll not find water short of there, and if we make it by night, we’ll be doing better than I figure from the look of these bogs. Now go to chewing. That’s it! That’s fine, Miss Jenny!”

Miss Leslie had forced herself to take a nibble of the raw fish. The flavor proved less repulsive than she had expected, and its moisture was so grateful to her parched mouth that she began to eat with eagerness. Not to be outdone, Winthrope promptly followed her lead. Blake had already cut himself a second slice. After he had cut more for his companions, he began to look them over with a closeness that proved embarrassing to Miss Leslie.

“Here’s more of the good stuff,” he said. “While you’re chewing it, we’ll sort of take stock. Everybody shell out everything. Here’s my outfit–three shillings, half a dozen poker chips, and not another blessed– Say, what’s become of that whiskey flask? Have you seen my flask?”

“Here it is, right beside me, Mr. Blake,” answered Miss Leslie. “But it is empty.”

“Might be worse! What you got?–hair-pins, watch? No pocket, I suppose?”

“None; and no watch. Even most of my pins are gone,” replied the girl, and she raised her hand to her loosely coiled hair.

“Well, hold on to what you’ve got left. They may come in for fish-hooks. Let’s see your shoes.”

Miss Leslie slowly thrust a slender little foot just beyond the hem of her draggled white skirt.

“Good Lord!” groaned Blake, “slippers, and high heels at that! How do you expect to walk in those things?”

“I can at least try,” replied the girl, with spirit.

“Hobble! Pass ’em over here, Winnie, my boy.”

The slippers were handed over. Blake took one after the other, and wrenched off the heel close to its base.

“Now you’ve at least got a pair of slippers,” he said, tossing them back to their owner. “Tie them on tight with a couple of your ribbons, if you don’t want to lose them in the mud. Now, Winthrope, what you got beside the knife?”

Winthrope held out a bunch of long flat keys and his cigarette case. He opened the latter, and was about to throw away the two remaining cigarettes when Blake grasped his wrist.

“Hold on! even they may come in for something. We’ll at least keep them until we need the case.”

“And the keys!”

“Make arrow-heads, if we can get fire.”

“I’ve heard of savages making fire by rubbing wood.”

“Yes; and we’re a long way from being savages,–at present. All the show we have is to find some kind of quartz or flint, and the sooner we start to look the better. Got your slippers tied, Miss Jenny?”

“Yes; I think they’ll do.”

“Think! It’s knowing’s the thing. Here, let me look.”

The girl shrank back; but Blake stooped and examined first one slipper and then the other. The ribbons about both were tied in dainty bows. Blake jerked them loose and twisted them firmly over and under the slippers and about the girl’s slender ankles before knotting the ends.

“There; that’s more like. You’re not going to a dance,” he growled.

He thrust the empty whiskey flask into his hip pocket, and went back to pass a sling of reeds through the gills of the coryphene.

“All ready now,” he called. “Let’s get a move on. Keep my coat closer about your shoulders, Miss Jenny, and keep your shade up, if you don’t want a sunstroke.”

“Thank you, Blake, I’ll see to that,” said Winthrope. “I’m going to help Miss Leslie along. I’ve fastened our two shades together, so that they will answer for both of us.”

“How about yourself, Mr. Blake?” inquired the girl. “Do you not find the sun fearfully hot?”

“Sure; but I wet my head in the sea, and here’s another souse.”

As he rose with dripping head from beside the pool, he slung the coryphene on his back, and started off without further words.

CHAPTER IV
A JOURNEY IN DESOLATION

Morning was well advanced, and the sun beat down upon the three with almost overpowering fierceness. The heat would have rendered their thirst unendurable had not Blake hacked off for them bit after bit of the moist coryphene flesh.

In a temperate climate, ten miles over firm ground is a pleasant walk for one accustomed to the exercise. Quite a different matter is ten miles across mud-flats, covered with a tangle of reeds and rushes, and frequently dipping into salt marsh and ooze. Before they had gone a mile Miss Leslie would have lost her slippers had it not been for Blake’s forethought in tying them so securely. Within a little more than three miles the girl’s strength began to fail.

“Oh, Blake,” called Winthrope, for the American was some yards in the lead, “pull up a bit on that knoll. We’ll have to rest a while, I fancy. Miss Leslie is about pegged.”

“What’s that?” demanded Blake. “We’re not half-way yet!”

Winthrope did not reply. It was all he could do to drag the girl up on the hummock. She sank, half-fainting, upon the dry reeds, and he sat down beside her to protect her with the shade. Blake stared at the miles of swampy flats which yet lay between them and the out-jutting headland of gray rock. The base of the cliff was screened by a belt of trees; but the nearest clump of green did not look more than a mile nearer than the headland.

“Hell!” muttered Blake, despondently. “Not even a short four miles. Mush and sassiety girls!”

Though he spoke to himself, the others heard him. Miss Leslie flushed, and would have risen had not Winthrope put his hand on her arm.

“Could you not go on, and bring back a flask of water for Miss Leslie?” he asked. “By that time she will be rested.”

“No; I don’t fetch back any flasks of water. She’s going when I go, or you can come on to suit yourselves.”

“Mr. Blake, you–you won’t go, and leave me here! If you have a sister–if your mother–”

“She died of drink, and both my sisters did worse.”

“My God, man! do you mean to say you’ll abandon a helpless young girl?”

“Not a bit more helpless than were my sisters when you rich folks’ guardians of law and order jugged me for the winter, ’cause I didn’t have a job, and turned both girls into the street–onto the street, if you know what that means–one only sixteen and the other seventeen. Talk about helpless young girls– Damnation!”

Miss Leslie cringed back as though she had been struck. Blake, however, seemed to have vented his anger in the curse, for when he again spoke, there was nothing more than impatience in his tone. “Come on, now; get aboard. Winthrope couldn’t lug you a half-mile, and long’s it’s the only way, don’t be all day about it. Here, Winthrope, look to the fish.”

“But, my dear fellow, I don’t quite take your idea, nor does Miss Leslie, I fancy,” ventured Winthrope.

“Well, we’ve got to get to water, or die; and as the lady can’t walk, she’s going on my back. It’s a case of have-to.”

“No! I am not–I am not! I’d sooner die!”

“I’m afraid you’ll find that easy enough, later on, Miss Jenny. Stand by, Winthrope, to help her up. Do you hear? Take the knife and fish, and lend a hand.”

There was a note in Blake’s voice that neither Winthrope nor Miss Leslie dared disregard. Though scarlet with mortification, she permitted herself to be taken pick-a-back upon Blake’s broad shoulders, and meekly obeyed his command to clasp her hands about his throat. Yet even at that moment, such are the inconsistencies of human nature, she could not but admire the ease with which he rose under her weight.

Now that he no longer had the slow pace of the girl to consider, he advanced at his natural gait, the quick, tireless stride of an American railroad-surveyor. His feet, trained to swamp travel in Louisiana and Panama, seemed to find the firmest ground as by instinct, and whether on the half-dried mud of the hummocks or in the ankle-deep water of the bogs, they felt their way without slip or stumble.

Winthrope, though burdened only with the half-eaten coryphene, toiled along behind, greatly troubled by the mud and the tangled reeds, and now and then flung down by some unlucky misstep. His modish suit, already much damaged by the salt water, was soon smeared afresh with a coating of greenish slime. His one consolation was that Blake, after jeering at his first tumble, paid no more attention to him. On the other hand, he was cut by the seeming indifference of Miss Leslie. Intent on his own misery, he failed to consider that the girl might be suffering far greater discomfort and humiliation.

More than three miles had been covered before Blake stopped on a hummock. Releasing Miss Leslie, he stretched out on the dry crest of the knoll, and called for a slice of the fish. At his urging, the others took a few mouthfuls, although their throats were now so parched that even the moist flesh afforded scant relief. Fortunately for them all, Blake had been thoroughly trained to endure thirst. He rested less than ten minutes; then, taking Miss Leslie up again like a rag doll, he swung away at a good pace.

The trees were less than half a mile distant when he halted for the second time. He would have gone to them without a pause though his muscles were quivering with exhaustion, had not Miss Leslie chanced to look around and discover that Winthrope was no longer following them. For the last mile he had been lagging farther and farther behind, and now he had suddenly disappeared. At the girl’s dismayed exclamation, Blake released his hold, and she found herself standing in a foot or more of mud and water. The sweat was streaming down Blake’s face. As he turned around, he wiped it off with his shirtsleeves.

“Do you–can it be, Mr. Blake, that he has had a sunstroke?” asked Miss Leslie.

“Sunstroke? No; he’s just laid down, that’s all. I thought he had more sand–confound him!”

“But the sun is so dreadfully hot, and I have his shade.”

“And he’s been tumbling into every other pool. No; it’s not the sun. I’ve half a mind to let him lie–the paper-legged swell! It would no more than square our aboard-ship accounts.”

“Surely, you would not do that, Mr. Blake! It may be that he has hurt himself in falling.”

“In this mud?–bah! But I guess I’m in for the pack-mule stunt all around. Now, now; don’t yowl, Miss Jenny. I’m going. But you can’t expect me to love the snob.”

As he splashed away on the return trail, Miss Leslie dabbed at her eyes to check the starting tears.

“Oh, dear–Oh, dear!” she moaned; “what have I done, to be so treated? Such a brute, Oh, dear!–and I am so thirsty!”

In her despair she would have sunk down where she stood had not the sliminess of the water repelled her. She gazed longingly at the trees, in the fore of which stood a grove of stately palms. The half-mile seemed an insuperable distance, but the ride on Blake’s back had rested her, and thirst goaded her forward.

Stumbling and slipping, she waded on across the inundated ground, and came out upon a half-baked mud-flat, where the walking was much easier. But the sun was now almost directly overhead, and between her thirst and the heat, she soon found herself faltering. She tottered on a few steps farther, and then stopped, utterly spent As she sank upon the dried rushes, she glanced around, and was vaguely conscious of a strange, double-headed figure following her path across the marsh. All about her became black.

The next she knew, Blake was splashing her head and face with brackish water out of the whiskey flask. She raised her hand to shield her face, and sat up, sick and dizzy.

“That’s it!” said Blake. He spoke in a kindly tone, though his voice was harsh and broken with thirst. “You’re all right now. Pull yourself together, and we’ll get to the trees in a jiffy.”

“Mr. Winthrope–?”

“I’m here, Miss Genevieve. It was only a wrenched ankle. If I had a stick, Blake, I fancy I could make a go of it over this drier ground.”

“And lay yourself up for a month. Come, Miss Jenny, brace up for another try. It’s only a quarter-mile, and I’ve got to pack him.”

The girl was gasping with thirst; yet she made an effort, and assisted by Blake managed to gain her feet. She was still dizzy; but as Blake swung Winthrope upon his back, he told her to take hold of his arm. Winthrope held the shade over her head. Thus assisted, and sheltered from the direct beat of the sun-rays, she tottered along beside Blake, half unconscious.

Fortunately the remaining distance lay across a stretch of bare dry ground, for even Blake had all but reached the limit of endurance. Step by step he labored on, staggering under the weight of the Englishman, and gasping with a thirst which his exertions rendered even greater than that of his companions. But through the trees and brush which stretched away inland in a wall of verdure he had caught glimpses of a broad stream, and the hope of fresh water called out every ounce of his reserve strength.

At last the nearest palm was only a few paces distant. Blake clutched Miss Leslie’s arm, and dragged her forward with a rush, in a final outburst of energy. A moment later all three lay gasping in the shade. But the river was yet another hundred yards distant. Blake waited only to regain his breath; then he staggered up and went on. The others, unable to rise, gazed after him in silent misery.

Soon Blake found himself rushing through the jungle along a broad trail pitted with enormous footprints; but he was so near mad with thirst that he paid no heed to the spoor other than to curse the holes for the trouble they gave him. Suddenly the trail turned to the left and sloped down a low bank into the river. Blind to all else, Blake ran down the slope, and dropping upon his knees, plunged his head into the water.

At first his throat was so dry that he could no more than rinse his mouth. With the first swallow, his swollen tongue mocked him with the salt, bitter taste of sea-water. The tide was flowing! He rose, sputtering and choking and gasping. He stared around. There was no question that he was on the bank of a river and would be certain of fresh water with the ebb tide. But could he endure the agony of his thirst all those hours?

He thought of his companions.

“Good God!” he groaned, “they’re goners anyway!”

He stared dully up the river at the thousands of waterfowl which lined its banks. Within close view were herons and black ibises, geese, pelicans, flamingoes, and a dozen other species of birds of which he did not know the names. But he sat as though in a stupor, and did not move even when one of the driftwood logs on a mud-shoal a few yards up-stream opened an enormous mouth and displayed two rows of hooked fangs. It was otherwise when the noontime stillness was broken by a violent splashing and loud snortings down-stream. He glanced about, and saw six or eight monstrous heads drifting towards him with the tide.

“What in– Whee! a whole herd of hippos!” he muttered. “That’s what the holes mean.”

The foremost hippopotamus was headed directly for him. He glared at the huge head with sullen resentment. For all his stupor, he perceived at once that the beast intended to land; and he sat in the middle of its accustomed path. His first impulse was to spring up and yell at the creature. Then he remembered hearing that a white hunter had recently been killed by these beasts on one of the South African lakes. Instead of leaping up, he sank down almost flat, and crawled back around the turn in the path. Once certain that he was hidden from the beasts, he rose to his feet and hastened back through the jungle.

He was almost in view of the spot where he had left Winthrope and Miss Leslie, when he stopped and stood hesitating.

“I can’t do it,” he muttered; “I can’t tell her,–poor girl!”

He turned and pushed into the thicket. Forcing a way through the tangle of thorny shrubs and creepers, until several yards from the path, he began to edge towards the face of the jungle, that he might peer out at his companions, unseen by them.

There was more of the thicket before him than he had thought, and he was still fighting his way through it, when he was brought to a stand by a peculiar cry that might have been the bleat of a young lamb: “Ba–ba!”

“What’s that!” he croaked.

He stood listening, and in a moment he again heard the cry, this time more distinctly: “Blak!–Blak!”

There could be no mistake. It was Winthrope calling for him, and calling with a clearness of voice that would have been physically impossible half an hour since. Blake’s sunken eyes lighted with hope. He burst through the last screen of jungle, and stared towards the palm under which he had left his companions. They were not there.

Another call from Winthrope directed his gaze more seaward. The two were seated beside a fallen palm, and Miss Leslie had a large round object raised to her lips. Winthrope was waving to him.

“Cocoanuts!” he yelled. “Come on!”

Three of the palms had been overthrown by the hurricane, and when Blake came up, he found the ground strewn with nuts. He seized the first he came to; but Winthrope held out one already opened. He snatched it from him, and placed the hole to his swollen lips. Never had champagne tasted half so delicious as that cocoanut milk. Before he could drain the last of it through the little opening, Winthrope had the husks torn from the ends of two other nuts, and the convenient germinal spots gouged open with his penknife.

Blake emptied the third before he spoke. Even then his voice was hoarse and strained. “How’d you strike ’em?”

“I couldn’t help it,” explained Winthrope. “Hardly had you disappeared when I noticed the tops of the fallen palms, and thought of the nuts. There was one in the grass not twenty feet from where we lay.”

“Lucky for you–and for me, too, I guess,” said Blake. “We were all three down for the count. But this settles the first round in our favor. How do you like the picnic, Miss Jenny?”

“Miss Leslie, if you please,” replied the girl, with hauteur.

“Oh, say, Miss Jenny!” protested Blake, genially. “We live in the same boarding-house now. Why not be folksy? You’re free to call me Tom. Pass me another nut, Winthrope. Thanks! By the way, what’s your front name? Saw it aboard ship–Cyril–”

“Cecil,” corrected Winthrope, in a low tone.

“Cecil–Lord Cecil, eh?–or is it only The Honorable Cecil?”

“My dear sir, I have intimated before that, for reasons of–er–State–”

“Oh, yes; you’re travelling incog., in the secret service. Sort of detective–”

“Detective!” echoed Winthrope, in a peculiar tone.

Blake grinned. “Well, it is rawther a nawsty business for your honorable ludship. But there’s nothing like calling things by their right names.”

“Right names–er–I don’t quite take you. I have told you distinctly, my name is Cecil Winthrope!”

“O-h-h! how lovely!–See-sill! See-seal!–Bet they called you Sissy at school. English, chum of mine told me your schools are corkers for nicknames. What’ll we make it–Sis or Sissy?”

“I prefer my patronymic, Mr. Blake,” replied Winthrope.

“All right, then; we’ll make it Pat, if that’s your choice. I say, Pat, this juice is the stuff for wetness, but it makes a fellow remember his grub. Where’d you leave that fish?”

“Really, I can’t just say, but it must have been where I wrenched my ankle.”

“You cawn’t just say! And what are we going to eat?”

“Here are the cocoanuts.”

“Bright boy! go to the head of the class! Just take some more husk off those empty ones.”

Winthrope caught up one of the nuts, and with the aid of his knife, stripped it of its husk. At a gesture from Blake, he laid it on the bare ground, and the American burst it open with a blow of his heel. It was an immature nut, and the meat proved to be little thicker than clotted cream. Blake divided it into three parts, handing Miss Leslie the cleanest.

Though his companions began with more restraint, they finished their shares with equal gusto. Winthrope needed no further orders to return to his husking. One after another, the nuts were cracked and divided among the three, until even Blake could not swallow another mouthful of the luscious cream.

Toward the end Miss Leslie had become drowsy. At Winthrope’s urging, she now lay down for a nap, Blake’s coat serving as a pillow. She fell asleep while Winthrope was yet arranging it for her. Blake had turned his back on her, and was staring moodily at the hippopotamus trail, when Winthrope hobbled around and sat down on the palm trunk beside him.

“I say, Blake,” he suggested, “I feel deuced fagged myself. Why not all take a nap?”

“‘And when they awoke, they were all dead men,’” remarked Blake.

“By Jove, that sounds like a joke,” protested the Englishman. “Don’t rag me now.”

“Joke!” repeated Blake. “Why, that’s Scripture, Pat, Scripture! Anyway, you’d think it no joke to wake up and find yourself going down the throat of a hippo.”

“Hippo?”

“Dozens of them over in the river. Shouldn’t wonder if they’ve all landed, and ’re tracking me down by this time.”

“But hippopotami are not carnivorous–they’re not at all dangerous, unless one wounds them, out in the water.”

“That may be; but I’m not taking chances. They’ve got mouths like sperm whales–I saw one take a yawn. Another thing, that bayou is chuck full of alligators, and a fellow down on the Rand told me they’re like the Central American gavials for keenness to nip a swimmer.”

“They will not come out on this dry land.”

“Suppose they won’t–there’re no other animals in Africa but sheep, eh?”

“What can we do? The captain told me that there are both lions and leopards on this coast.”

“Nice place for them, too, around these trees,” added Blake. “Lucky for us, they’re night-birds mostly,–if that Rand fellow didn’t lie. He was a Boer, so I guess he ought to know.”

“To be sure. It’s a nasty fix we’re in for to-night. Could we not build some kind of a barricade?”

“With a penknife! Guess we’ll roost in a tree.”

“But cannot leopards climb? It seems to me that I have heard–”

“How about lions?”

“They cannot; I’m sure of that.”

“Then we’ll chance the leopards. Just stretch out here, and nurse that ankle of yours. I don’t want to be lugging you all year. I’m going to hunt a likely tree.”

CHAPTER V
THE RE-ASCENT OF MAN

Afternoon was far advanced, and Winthrope was beginning to feel anxious, when at last Blake pushed out from among the close thickets. As he approached, he swung an unshapely club of green wood, pausing every few paces to test its weight and balance on a bush or knob of dirt.

“By Jove!” called Winthrope; “that’s not half bad! You look as if you could bowl over an ox.”

Blake showed that he was flattered.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he responded; “the thing’s blamed unhandy. Just the same, I guess we’ll be ready for callers to-night.”

“How’s that?”

“Show you later, Pat, me b’y. Now trot out some nuts. We’ll feed before we move camp.”

“Miss Leslie is still sleeping.”

“Time, then, to roust her out. Hey, Miss Jenny, turn out! Time to chew.”

Miss Leslie sat up and gazed around in bewilderment.

“It’s all right, Miss Genevieve,” reassured Winthrope. “Blake has found a safe place for the night, and he wishes us to eat before we leave here.”

“Save lugging the grub,” added Blake. “Get busy, Pat.”

As Winthrope caught up a nut, the girl began to arrange her disordered hair and dress with the deft and graceful movements of a woman thoroughly trained in the art of self-adornment. There was admiration in Blake’s deep eyes as he watched her dainty preening. She was not a beautiful girl–at present she could hardly be termed pretty; yet even in her draggled, muddy dress she retained all the subtle charms of culture which appeal so strongly to a man. Blake was subdued. His feelings even carried him so far as an attempt at formal politeness, when they had finished their meal.

“Now, Miss Leslie,” he began, “it’s little more than half an hour to sundown; so, if you please, if you’re quite ready, we’d best be starting.”

“Is it far?”

“Not so very. But we’ve got to chase through the jungle. Are you sure you’re quite ready?”

“Quite, thank you. But how about Mr. Winthrope’s ankle?”

“He’ll ride as far as the trees. I can’t squeeze through with him, though.”

“I shall walk all the way,” put in Winthrope.

“No, you won’t. Climb aboard,” replied Blake, and catching up his club, he stooped for Winthrope to mount his back. As he rose with his burden, Miss Leslie caught sight of his coat, which still lay in a roll beside the palm trunk.

“How about your coat, Mr. Blake?” she asked. “Should you not put it on?”

“No; I’m loaded now. Have to ask you to look after it. You may need it before morning, anyway. If the dews here are like those in Central America, they are d-darned liable to bring on malarial fever.”

Nothing more was said until they had crossed the open space between the palms and the belt of jungle along the river. At other times Winthrope and Miss Leslie might have been interested in the towering screw-palms, festooned to the top with climbers, and in the huge ferns which they could see beneath the mangroves, in the swampy ground on their left. Now, however, they were far too concerned with the question of how they should penetrate the dense tangle of thorny brush and creepers which rose before them like a green wall. Even Blake hesitated as he released Winthrope, and looked at Miss Leslie’s costume. Her white skirt was of stout duck; but the flimsy material of her waist was ill-suited for rough usage.

“Better put the coat on, unless you want to come out on the other side in full evening dress,” he said. “There’s no use kicking; but I wish you’d happened to have on some sort of a jacket when we got spilled.”

“Is there no path through the thicket?” inquired Winthrope.

“Only the hippo trail, and it don’t go our way. We’ve got to run our own line. Here’s a stick for your game ankle.”

Winthrope took the half-green branch which Blake broke from the nearest tree, and turned to assist Miss Leslie with the coat. The garment was of such coarse cloth that as Winthrope drew the collar close about her throat Miss Leslie could not forego a little grimace of repugnance. The crease between Blake’s eyes deepened, and the girl hastened to utter an explanatory exclamation: “Not so tight, Mr. Winthrope, please! It scratches my neck.”

“You’d find those thorns a whole lot worse,” muttered Blake.

“To be sure; and Miss Leslie fully appreciates your kindness,” interposed Winthrope.

“I do indeed, Mr. Blake! I’m sure I never could go through here without your coat.”

“That’s all right. Got the handkerchief?”

“I put it in one of the pockets.”

“It’ll do to tie up your hair.”

Miss Leslie took the suggestion, knotting the big square of linen over her fluffy brown hair.

Blake waited only for her to draw out the kerchief, before he began to force a way through the jungle. Now and then he beat at the tangled vegetation with his club. Though he held to the line by which he had left the thicket, yet all his efforts failed to open an easy passage for the others. Many of the thorny branches sprang back into place behind him, and as Miss Leslie, who was the first to follow, sought to thrust them aside, the thorns pierced her delicate skin, until her hands were covered with blood. Nor did Winthrope, stumbling and hobbling behind her, fare any better. Twice he tripped headlong into the brush, scratching his arms and face.

Blake took his own punishment as a matter of course, though his tougher and thicker skin made his injuries less painful. He advanced steadily along the line of bent and broken twigs that marked his outward passage, until the thicket opened on a strip of grassy ground beneath a wild fig-tree.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Winthrope, “a banyan!”

“Banyan? Well, if that’s British for a daisy, you’ve hit it,” responded Blake. “Just take a squint up here. How’s that for a roost?”

Winthrope and Miss Leslie stared up dubiously at the edge of a bed of reeds gathered in the hollow of one of the huge flattened branches at its junction with the main trunk of the banyan, twenty feet above them.

“Will not the mosquitoes pester us, here among the trees?” objected Winthrope.

“Storm must have blown ’em away. I haven’t seen any yet.”

“There will be millions after sunset.”

“Maybe; but I bet they keep below our roost”

“But how are we to get up so high?” inquired Miss Leslie.

“I can swarm this drop root, and I’ve a creeper ready for you two,” explained Blake.

Suiting action to words, he climbed up the small trunk of the air root, and swung over into the hollow where he had piled the reeds. Across the broad limb dangled a rope-like creeper, one end of which he had fastened to a branch higher up. He flung down the free end to Winthrope.

“Look lively, Pat,” he called. “The sun’s most gone, and the twilight don’t last all night in these parts. Get the line around Miss Leslie, and do what you can on a boost.”

“I see; but, you know, the vine is too stiff to tie.”

Blake stifled an oath, and jerked the end of the creeper up into his hand. When he threw it down again, it was looped around and fastened in a bowline knot.

“Now, Miss Leslie, get aboard, and we’ll have you up in a jiffy,” he said.

“Are you sure you can lift me?” asked the girl, as Winthrope slipped the loop over her shoulders.

Blake laughed down at them. “Well, I guess yes! Once hoisted a fellow out of a fifty-foot prospect hole–big fat Dutchman at that. You don’t weigh over a hundred and twenty.”

He had stretched out across the broadest part of the branch. As Miss Leslie seated herself in the loop, he reached down and began to haul up on the creeper, hand over hand. Though frightened by the novel manner of ascent, the girl clung tightly to the line above her head, and Blake had no difficulty in raising her until she swung directly beneath him. Here, however, he found himself in a quandary. The girl seemed as helpless as a child, and he was lying flat. How could he lift her above the level of the branch?

“Take hold the other line,” he said. The girl hesitated. “Do you hear? Grab it quick, and pull up hard, if you don’t want a tumble!”

The girl seized the part of the creeper which was fastened above, and drew herself up with convulsive energy. Instantly Blake rose to his knees, and grasping the taut creeper with one hand, reached down with the other, to swing the girl up beside him on the branch.

“All right, Miss Jenny,” he reassured her as he felt her tremble. “Sorry to scare you, but I couldn’t have made it without. Now, if you’ll just hold down my legs, we’ll soon hoist his ludship.”

He had seated her in the broadest part of the shallow hollow, where the branch joined the main trunk of the fig. Heaped with the reeds which he had gathered during the afternoon, it made such a cozy shelter that she at once forgot her dizziness and fright. Nestling among the reeds, she leaned over and pressed down on his ankles with all her strength.

The loose end of the creeper had fallen to the ground when Blake lifted her upon the branch, and Winthrope was already slipping into the loop. Blake ordered him to take it off, and send up the club. As the creeper was again flung down, a black shadow swept over the jungle.

“Hello! Sunset!” called Blake. “Look sharp, there!”

“All ready,” responded Winthrope.

Blake drew in a full breath, and began to hoist. The position was an awkward one, and Winthrope weighed thirty or forty pounds more than Miss Leslie. But as the Englishman came within reach of the descending loop, he grasped it and did what he could to ease Blake’s efforts. A few moments found him as high above the ground as Blake could raise him. Without waiting for orders, he swung himself upon the upper part of the creeper, and climbed the last few feet unaided. Blake grunted with satisfaction as he pulled him in upon the branch.

“You may do, after all,” he said. “At any rate, we’re all aboard for the night; and none too soon. Hear that!”

“What?”

“Lion, I guess–Not that yelping. Listen!”

The brief twilight was already fading into the darkness of a moonless night, and as the three crouched together in their shallow nest, they were soon made audibly aware of the savage nature of their surroundings. With the gathering night the jungle wakened into full life. From all sides came the harsh squawking of birds, the weird cries of monkeys and other small creatures, the crash of heavy animals moving through the jungle, and above all the yelp and howl and roar of beasts of prey.

After some contention with Winthrope, Blake conceded that the roars of his lion might be nothing worse than the snorting of the hippopotami as they came out to browse for the night. In this, however, there was small comfort, since Winthrope presently reasserted his belief in the climbing ability of leopards, and expressed his opinion that, whether or not there were lions in the neighborhood, certain of the barking roars they could hear came from the throats of the spotted climbers. Even Blake’s hair bristled as his imagination pictured one of the great cats creeping upon them in the darkness from the far end of their nest limb, or leaping down out of the upper branches.

The nerves of all three were at their highest tension when a dark form swept past through the air within a yard of their faces. Miss Leslie uttered a stifled scream, and Blake brandished his club. But Winthrope, who had caught a glimpse of the creature’s shape, broke into a nervous laugh.

“It’s only a fruit bat,” he explained. “They feed on the banyan figs, you know.”

In the reaction from this false alarm, both men relaxed, and began to yield to the effects of the tramp across the mud-flats. Arranging the reeds as best they could, they stretched out on either side of Miss Leslie, and fell asleep in the middle of an argument on how the prospective leopard was most likely to attack.

Miss Leslie remained awake for two or three hours longer. Naturally she was more nervous than her companions, and she had been refreshed by her afternoon’s nap. Her nervousness was not entirely due to the wild beasts. Though Blake had taken pains to secure himself and his companions in loops of the creeper, fastened to the branch above, Winthrope moved about so restlessly in his sleep that the girl feared he would roll from the hollow.

At last her limbs became so cramped that she was compelled to change her position. She leaned back upon her elbow, determined to rise again and maintain her watch the moment she was rested. But sleep was close upon her. There was a lull in the louder noises of the jungle. Her eyes closed, and her head sank lower. In a little time it was lying upon Winthrope’s shoulder, and she was fast asleep.

As Blake had asserted, the mosquitoes had either been blown away by the cyclone, or did not fly to such a height. None came to trouble the exhausted sleepers.

CHAPTER VI
MAN AND GENTLEMAN

Night had almost passed, and all three, soothed by the refreshing coolness which preceded the dawn, were sleeping their soundest, when a sudden fierce roar followed instantly by a piercing squeal caused even Blake to start up in panic. Miss Leslie, too terrified to scream, clung to Winthrope, who crouched on his haunches, little less overcome.

Blake was the first to recover and puzzle out the meaning of the crashing in the jungle and the ferocious growls directly beneath them.

“Lie still,” he whispered. “We’re all right. It’s only a beast that’s killed something down below us.”

All sat listening, and as the noise of the animals in the thicket died away, they could hear the beast beneath them tear at the body of its victim.

“The air feels like dawn,” whispered Winthrope. “We’ll soon be able to see the brute.”

“And he us,” rejoined Blake.

In this both were mistaken. During the brief false dawn they were puzzled by the odd appearance of the ground. The sudden flood of full daylight found them staring down into a dense white fog.

“So they have that here!” muttered Blake–“fever-fog!”

“Beastly shame!” echoed Winthrope. “I’m sure the creature has gone off.”

This assertion was met by an outburst of snarls and yells that made all start back and crouch down again in their sheltering hollow. As before, Blake was the first to recover.

“Bet you’re right,” he said. “The big one has gone off, and a pack of these African coyotes are having a scrap over the bones.”

“You mean jackals. It sounds like the nasty beasts.”

“If it wasn’t for that fog, I’d go down and get our share of the game.”

“Would it not be very dangerous, Mr. Blake?” asked Miss Leslie. “What a fearful noise!”

“I’ve chased coyotes off a calf with a rope; but that’s not the proposition. You don’t find me fooling around in that sewer gas of a fog. We’ll roost right where we are till the sun does for it. We’ve got enough malaria in us already.”

“Will it be long, Blake?” asked Winthrope.

“Huh? Getting hungry this quick? Wait till you’ve tramped around a week, with nothing to eat but your shoes.”

“Surely, Mr. Blake, it will not be so bad!” protested Miss Leslie.

“Sorry, Miss Jenny; but cocoanut palms don’t blow over every day, and when those nuts are gone, what are we going to do for the next meal?”

“Could we not make bows?” suggested Winthrope. “There seems to be no end of game about.”

“Bows–and arrows without points! Neither of us could hit a barn door, anyway.”

“We could practise.”

“Sure–six weeks’ training on air pudding. I can do better with a handful of stones.”

“Then we should go at once to the cliffs,” said Miss Leslie.

“Now you’re talking–and it’s Pike Peak or bust, for ours. Here’s one night to the good; but we won’t last many more if we don’t get fire. It’s flints we’re after now.”

“Could we not make fire by rubbing sticks?” said Winthrope, recalling his suggestion of the previous morning. “I’ve heard that natives have no trouble–”

“So’ve I, and what’s more, I’ve seen ’em do it. Never could make a go of it myself, though.”

“But if you remember how it is done, we have at least some chance–”

“Give you ten to one odds! No; we’ll scratch around for a flint good and plenty before we waste time that way.”

“The mist is going,” observed Miss Leslie.

“That’s no lie. Now for our coyotes. Where’s my club?”

“They’ve all left,” said Winthrope, peering down. “I can see the ground clearly, and there is not a sign of the beasts.”

“There are the bones–what’s left of them,” added Blake. “It’s a small deer, I suppose. Well, here goes.”

He threw down his club, and dropped the loose end of the creeper after it. As the line straightened, he twisted the upper part around his leg, and was about to slide to the ground, when he remembered Miss Leslie.

“Think you can make it alone?” he asked.

The girl held up her hands, sore and swollen from the lacerations of the thorns. Blake looked at them, frowned, and turned to Winthrope.

“Um! you got it, too, and in the face,” he grunted. “How’s your ankle?”

Winthrope wriggled his foot about, and felt the injured ankle.

“I fancy it is much better,” he answered. “There seems to be no swelling, and there is no pain now.”

“That’s lucky; though it will tune up later. Take a slide, now. We’ve got to hustle our breakfast, and find a way to get over the river.”

“How wide is it?” inquired Winthrope, gazing at his swollen hands.

“About three hundred yards at high tide. May be narrower at ebb.”

“Could you not build a raft?” suggested Miss Leslie.

Blake smiled at her simplicity. “Why not a boat? We’ve got a penknife.”

“Well, then, I can swim.”

“Bully for you! Guess, though, we’ll try something else. The river is chuck full of alligators. What you waiting for, Pat? We haven’t got all day to fool around here.”

Winthrope twisted the creeper about his leg and slid to the ground, doing all he could to favor his hands. He found that he could walk without pain, and at once stepped over beside Blake’s club, glancing nervously around at the jungle.

Blake jerked up the end of the creeper, and passed the loop about Miss Leslie. Before she had time to become frightened, he swung her over and lowered her to the ground lightly as a feather. He followed, hand under hand, and stood for a moment beside her, staring at the dew-dripping foliage of the jungle. Then the remains of the night’s quarry caught his eye, and he walked over to examine them.

“Say, Pat,” he called, “these don’t look like deer bones. I’d say–yes; there’s the feet–it’s a pig.”

“Any tusks?” demanded Winthrope.

Miss Leslie looked away. A heap of bones, however cleanly gnawed, is not a pleasant sight. The skull of the animal seemed to be missing; but Blake stumbled upon it in a tuft of grass, and kicked it out upon the open ground. Every shred of hide and gristle had been gnawed from it by the jackals; yet if there had been any doubt as to the creature’s identity, there was evidence to spare in the savage tusks which projected from the jaws.

“Je-rusalem!” observed Blake; “this old boar must have been something of a scrapper his own self.”

“In India they have been known to kill a tiger. Can you knock out the tusks?”

“What for?”

“Well, you said we had nothing for arrow points–”

“Good boy! We’ll cinch them, and ask questions later.”

A few blows with the club loosened the tusks. Blake handed them over to Winthrope, together with the whiskey flask, and led the way to the half-broken path through the thicket. A free use of his club made the path a little more worthy of the name, and as there was less need of haste than on the previous evening, Winthrope and Miss Leslie came through with only a few fresh scratches. Once on open ground again, they soon gained the fallen palms.

At a word from Blake, Miss Leslie hastened to fetch nuts for Winthrope to husk and open. Blake, who had plucked three leaves from a fan palm near the edge of the jungle, began to split long shreds from one of the huge leaves of a cocoanut palm. This gave him a quantity of coarse, stiff fibre, part of which he twisted in a cord and used to tie one of the leaves of the fan palm over his head.

“How’s that for a bonnet?” he demanded.

The improvised head-gear bore so grotesque a resemblance to a recent type of picture hat that Winthrope could not repress a derisive laugh. Miss Leslie, however, examined the hat and gave her opinion without a sign of amusement. “I think it is splendid, Mr. Blake. If we must go out in the sun again, it is just the thing to protect one.”

“Yes. Here’s two more I’ve fixed for you. Ready yet, Winthrope?”

The Englishman nodded, and the three sat down to their third feast of cocoanuts. They were hungry enough at the start, and Blake added no little keenness even to his own appetite by a grim joke on the slender prospects of the next meal, to the effect that, if in the meantime not eaten themselves, they might possibly find their next meal within a week.

“But if we must move, could we not take some of the nuts with us?” suggested Winthrope.

Blake pondered over this as he ate, and when, fully satisfied, he helped himself up with his club, he motioned the others to remain seated.

“There are your hats and the strings,” he said, “but you won’t need them now. I’m going to take a prospect along the river; and while I’m gone, you can make a try at stringing nuts on some of this leaf fibre.”

“But, Mr. Blake, do you think it’s quite safe?” asked Miss Leslie, and she glanced from him to the jungle.

“Safe?” he repeated. “Well, nothing ate you yesterday, if that’s anything to go by. It’s all I know about it.”

He did not wait for further protests. Swinging his club on his shoulder, he started for the break in the jungle which marked the hippopotamus path. The others looked at each other, and Miss Leslie sighed.

“If only he were a gentleman!” she complained.

Winthrope turned abruptly to the cocoanuts.

CHAPTER VII
AROUND THE HEADLAND

It was mid morning before Blake reappeared. He came from the mangrove swamp where it ran down into the sea. His trousers were smeared to the thigh with slimy mud; but as he approached, the drooping brim of his palm-leaf hat failed to hide his exultant expression.

“Come on!” he called. “I’ve struck it. We’ll be over in half an hour.”

“How’s that?” asked Winthrope.

“Bar,” answered Blake, hurrying forward. “Sling on your hats, and get into my coat again, Miss Jenny. The sun’s hot as yesterday. How about the nuts?”

“Here they are. Three strings; all that I fancied we could carry,” explained Winthrope.

“All right. The big one is mine, I suppose. I’ll take two. We’ll leave the other. Lean on me, if your ankle is still weak.”

“Thanks; I can make it alone. But must we go through mud like that?”

“Not on this side, at least. Come on! We don’t want to miss the ebb.”

Blake’s impatience discouraged further inquiries. He had turned as he spoke, and the others followed him, walking close together. The pace was sharp for Winthrope, and his ankle soon began to twinge. He was compelled to accept Miss Leslie’s invitation to take her arm. With her help, he managed to keep within a few yards of Blake.

Instead of plunging into the mangrove wood, which here was undergrown with a thicket of giant ferns, Blake skirted around in the open until they came to the seashore. The tide was at its lowest, and he waved his club towards a long sand spit which curved out around the seaward edge of the mangroves. Whether this was part of the river’s bar, or had been heaped up by the cyclone would have been beyond Winthrope’s knowledge, had the question occurred to him. It was enough for him that the sand was smooth and hard as a race track.

Presently the party came to the end of the spit, where the river water rippled over the sand with the last feeble out-suck of the ebb. On their right they had a sweeping view of the river, around the flank of the mangrove screen. Blake halted at the edge of the water, and half turned.

“Close up,” he said. “It’s shallow enough; but do you see those logs over on the mud-bank? Those are alligators.”

“Mercy!–and you expect me to wade among such creatures?” cried Miss Leslie.

“I went almost across an hour ago, and they didn’t bother me any. Come on! There’s wind in that cloud out seaward. Inside half an hour the surf’ll be rolling up on this bar like all Niagara.”

“If we must, we must, Miss Genevieve,” urged Winthrope. “Step behind me, and gather up your skirts. It’s best to keep one’s clothes dry in the tropics.”

The girl blushed, and retained his arm.

“I prefer to help you,” she replied.

“Come on!” called Blake, and he splashed out into the water.

The others followed within arm’s-length, nervously conscious of the rows of motionless reptiles on the mud-flat, not a hundred yards distant.

In the centre of the bar, where the water was a trifle over knee-deep, some large creature came darting down-stream beneath the surface, and passed with a violent swirl between Blake and his companions. At Miss Leslie’s scream, Blake whirled about and jabbed with his club at the supposed alligator.

“Where’s the brute? Has he got you?” he shouted.

“No, no; he went by!” gasped Winthrope. “There he is!”

A long bony snout, fringed on either side by a row of lateral teeth, was flung up into view.

“Sawfish!” said Blake, and he waded on across the bar, without further comment.

Miss Leslie had been on the point of fainting. The tone of Blake’s voice revived her instantly.

There were no more scares. A few minutes later they waded out upon a stretch of clean sand on the south side of the river. Before them the beach lay in a flattened curve, which at the far end hooked sharply to the left, and appeared to terminate at the foot of the towering limestone cliffs of the headland. A mile or more inland the river jungle edged in close to the cliffs; but from there to the beach the forest was separated from the wall of rock by a little sandy plain, covered with creeping plants and small palms. The greatest width of the open space was hardly more than a quarter of a mile.

Blake paused for a moment at high-tide mark, and Winthrope instantly squatted down to nurse his ankle.

“I say, Blake,” he said, “can’t you find me some kind of a crutch? It is only a few yards around to those trees.”

“Good Lord! you haven’t been fool enough to overstrain that ankle– Yes, you have. Dammit! why couldn’t you tell me before?”

“It did not feel so painful in the water.”

“I helped the best I could,” interposed Miss Leslie. “I think if you could get Mr. Winthrope a crutch–”

“Crutch!” growled Blake. “How long do you think it would take me to wade through the mud? And look at that cloud! We’re in for a squall. Here!”

He handed the girl the smaller string of cocoanuts, flung the other up the beach, and stooped for Winthrope to mount his back. He then started off along the beach at a sharp trot. Miss Leslie followed as best she could, the heavy cocoanuts swinging about with every step and bruising her tender body.

The wind was coming faster than Blake had calculated. Before they had run two hundred paces, they heard the roar of rain-lashed water, and the squall struck them with a force that almost overthrew the girl. With the wind came torrents of rain that drove through their thickest garments and drenched them to the skin within the first half-minute.

Blake slackened his pace to a walk, and plodded sullenly along beneath the driving down-pour. He kept to the lower edge of the beach, where the sand was firmest, for the force of the falling deluge beat down the waves and held in check the breakers which the wind sought to roll up the beach.

The rain storm was at its height when they reached the foot of the cliffs. The gray rock towered above them, thirty or forty feet high. Blake deposited Winthrope upon a wet ledge, and straightened up to scan the headland. Here and there ledges ran more than half-way up the rocky wall; in other places the crest was notched by deep clefts; but nowhere within sight did either offer a continuous path to the summit. Blake grunted with disgust.

“It’d take a fire ladder to get up this side,” he said. “We’ll have to try the other, if we can get around the point. I’m going on ahead. You can follow, after Pat has rested his ankle. Keep a sharp eye out for anything in the flint line–quartz or agate. That means fire. Another thing, when this rain blows over, don’t let your clothes dry on you. I’ve got my hands full enough, without having to nurse you through malarial fever. Don’t forget the cocoanuts, and if I don’t show up by noon, save me some.”

He stooped to drink from a pool in the rock which was overflowing with the cool, pure rainwater, and started off at his sharpest pace. Winthrope and Miss Leslie, seated side by side in dripping misery, watched him swing away through the rain, without energy enough to call out a parting word.

Beneath the cliff the sand beach was succeeded by a talus of rocky debris which in places sloped up from the water ten or fifteen feet. The lower part of the slope consisted of boulders and water-worn stones, over which the surf, reinforced by the rising tide, was beginning to break with an angry roar.

Blake picked his way quickly over the smaller stones near the top of the slope, now and then bending to snatch up a fragment that seemed to differ from the others. Finding nothing but limestone, he soon turned his attention solely to the passage around the headland. Here he had expected to find the surf much heavier. But the shore was protected by a double line of reefs, so close in that the channel between did not show a whitecap. This was fortunate, since in places the talus here sank down almost to the level of low tide. Even a moderate surf would have rendered farther progress impracticable.

Another hundred paces brought Blake to the second corner of the cliff, which jutted out in a little point. He clambered around it, and stopped to survey the coast beyond. Within the last few minutes the squall had blown over, and the rain began to moderate its down-pour. The sun, bursting through the clouds, told that the storm was almost past, and its flood of direct light cleared the view.

Along the south side of the cliff the sea extended in twice as far as on the north. From the end of the talus the coast trended off four or five miles to the south-southwest in a shallow bight, whose southern extremity was bounded by a second limestone headland. This ridge ran inland parallel to the first, and from a point some little distance back from the shore was covered with a growth of leafless trees.

Between the two ridges lay a plain, open along the shore, but a short distance inland covered with a jungle of tall yellow grass, above which, here and there, rose the tops of scrubby, leafless trees and the graceful crests of slender-shafted palms. Blake’s attention was drawn to the latter by that feeling of artificiality which their exotic appearance so often wakens in the mind of the Northern-bred man even after long residence in the tropics. But in a moment he turned away, with a growl. “More of those darned feather-dusters!” He was not looking for palms.

The last ragged bit of cloud, with its showery accompaniment, drifted past before the breeze which followed the squall, and the end of the storm was proclaimed by a deafening chorus of squawks and screams along the higher ledges of the cliff. Staring upward, Blake for the first time observed that the face of the cliff swarmed with seafowl.

“That’s luck!” he muttered. “Guess I haven’t forgot how to rob nests. Bet our fine lady’ll shy at sucking them raw! All the same, she’ll have to, if I don’t run across other rock than this, poor girl!”

He advanced again along the talus, and did not stop until he reached the sand beach. There he halted to make a careful examination, not only of the loose debris, but of the solid rock above. Finding no sign of flint or quartz, he growled out a curse, and backed off along the beach, to get a view of the cliff top. From a point a little beyond him, outward to the extremity of the headland, he could see that the upper ledges and the crest of the cliff, as well, were fairly crowded with seafowl and their nests. His smile of satisfaction broadened when he glanced inland and saw, less than half a mile distant, a wooded cleft which apparently ran up to the summit of the ridge. From a point near the top a gigantic baobab tree towered up against the skyline like a Brobdingnagian cabbage.

“Say, we may have a run for our money, after all,” he murmured. “Shade, and no end of grub, and, by the green of those trees, a spring–limestone water at that. Next thing, I’ll find a flint!”

He slapped his leg, and both sound and feeling reminded him that his clothes were drenched.

“Guess we’ll wait about that flint,” he said, and he made for a clump of thorn scrub a little way inland.

As the tall grass did not grow here within a mile of the shore, there was nothing to obstruct him. The creeping plants which during the rainy season had matted over the sandy soil were now leafless and withered by the heat of the dry season. Even the thorn scrub was half bare of leaves.

Blake walked around the clump to the shadiest side, and began to strip. In quick succession, one garment after another was flung across a branch where the sun would strike it. Last of all, the shoes were emptied of rainwater and set out to dry. Without a pause, he then gave himself a quick, light rub-down, just sufficient to invigorate the skin without starting the perspiration.

Physically the man was magnificent. His muscles were wiry and compact, rather than bulky, and as he moved, they played beneath his white skin with the smoothness and ease of a tiger’s.

After the rub-down, he squatted on his heels, and spent some time trying to bend his palm-leaf hat back into shape. When he had placed this also out in the sun, he found himself beginning to yawn. The dry, sultry air had made him drowsy. A touch with his bare foot showed him that the sand beneath the thorn bush had already absorbed the rain and offered a dry surface. He glanced around, drew his club nearer, and stretched himself out for a nap.

CHAPTER VIII
THE CLUB AGE

It was past two o’clock when the sun, striking in where Blake lay outstretched, began to scorch one of his legs. He stirred uneasily, and sat upright. Like a sailor, he was wide awake the moment he opened his eyes. He stood up, and peered around through the half leafless branches.

Over the water thousands of gulls and terns, boobies and cormorants were skimming and diving, while above them a number of graceful frigate birds–those swart, scarlet-throated pirates of the air,–hung poised, ready to swoop down and rob the weaker birds of their fish. All about the headland and the surrounding water was life in fullest action. Even from where he stood Blake could hear the harsh clamor of the seafowl.

In marked contrast to this scene, the plain was apparently lifeless. When Blake rose, a small brown lizard darted away across the sand. Otherwise there was neither sight nor sound of a living creature. Blake pondered this as he gathered his clothes into the shade and began to dress.

“Looks like the siesta is the all-round style in this God-forsaken hole,” he grumbled. “Haven’t seen so much as a rabbit, nor even one land bird. May be a drought–no; must be the dry season– Whee, these things are hot! I’m thirsty as a shark. Now, where’s that softy and her Ladyship? ’Fraid she’s in for a tough time!”

He drew on his shoes with a jerk, growled at their stiffness, and club in hand, stepped clear of the brush to look for his companions. The first glance along the foot of the cliff showed him Winthrope lying under the shade of the overhanging ledges, a few yards beyond the sand beach. Of Miss Leslie there was no sign. Half alarmed by this, Blake started for the beach with his swinging stride. Winthrope was awake, and on Blake’s approach, sat up to greet him.

“Hello!” he called. “Where have you been all this time?”

“’Sleep. Where’s Miss Leslie?”

“She’s around the point.”

Blake grinned mockingly. “Indeed! But I fawncy she won’t be for long.”

He would have passed on, but Winthrope stepped before him.

“Don’t go out there, Blake,” he protested. “I–ah–think it would be better if I went.”

“Why?” demanded Blake.

Winthrope hesitated; but an impatient movement by Blake forced an answer: “Well, you remember, this morning, telling us to dry our clothes.”

“Yes; I remember,” said Blake. “So you want to serve as lady’s valet?”

Winthrope’s plump face turned a sickly yellow.

“I–ah–valet?–What do you mean, sir? I protest–I do not understand you!” he stammered. But in the midst, catching sight of Blake’s bewildered stare, he suddenly flushed crimson, and burst out in unrestrained anger: “You–you bounder–you beastly cad! Any man with an ounce of decency–”

Blake uttered a jeering laugh– “Wow! Hark, how the British lion r-r-ro-ars when his tail’s twisted!”

“You beastly cad!” repeated the Englishman, now purple with rage.

Blake’s unpleasant pleasantry gave place to a scowl. His jaw thrust out like a bulldog’s, and he bent towards Winthrope with a menacing look. For a moment the Englishman faced him, sustained by his anger. But there was a steely light in Blake’s eyes that he could not withstand. Winthrope’s defiant stare wavered and fell. He shrank back, the color fast ebbing from his cheeks.

“Ugh!” growled Blake. “Guess you won’t blat any more about cads! You damned hypocrite! Maybe I’m not on to how you’ve been hanging around Miss Leslie just because she’s an heiress. Anything is fair enough for you swells. But let a fellow so much as open his mouth about your exalted set, and it’s perfectly dreadful, you know!”

He paused for a reply. Winthrope only drew back a step farther, and eyed him with a furtive, sidelong glance. This brought Blake back to his mocking jeer. “You’ll learn, Pat, me b’y. There’s lots of things’ll show up different to you before we get through this picnic. For one thing, I’m boss here–president, congress, and supreme court. Understand?”

“By what right, may I ask?” murmured Winthrope.

“Right!” answered Blake. “That hasn’t anything to do with the question–it’s might. Back in civilized parts, your little crowd has the drop on my big crowd, and runs things to suit themselves. But here we’ve sort of reverted to primitive society. This happens to be the Club Age, and I’m the Man with the Big Stick. See?”

“I myself sympathize with the lower classes, Mr. Blake. Above all, I think it barbarous the way they punish one who is forced by circumstances to appropriate part of the ill-gotten gains of the rich upstarts. But do you believe, Mr. Blake, that brute strength–”

“You bet! Now shut up. Where’re the cocoanuts?”

Winthrope picked up two nuts and handed them over.

“There were only five,” he explained.

“All right. I’m no captain of industry.”

“Ah, true; you said we had reverted to barbarism,” rejoined Winthrope, venturing an attempt at sarcasm.

“Lucky for you!” retorted Blake. “But where’s Miss Leslie all this time? Her clothes must have dried hours ago.”

“They did. We had luncheon together just this side of the point.”

“Oh, you did! Then why shouldn’t I go for her?”

“I–I–there was a shaded pool around the point, and she thought a dip in the salt water would refresh her. She went not more than half an hour ago.”

“So that’s it. Well, while I eat, you go and call her–and say, you keep this side the point. I’m looking out for Miss Leslie now.”

Winthrope hurried away, clenching his fists and almost weeping with impotent rage. Truly, matters were now very different from what they had been aboard ship. Fortunately he had not gone a dozen steps before Miss Leslie appeared around the corner of the cliff. He was scrambling along over the loose stones of the slope without the slightest consideration for his ankle. The girl, more thoughtful, waved to him to wait for her where he was.

As she approached, Blake’s frown gave place to a look that made his face positively pleasant. He had already drained the cocoanuts; now he proceeded to smash the shells into small bits, that he might eat the meat, and at the same time keep his gaze on the girl. The cliff foot being well shaded by the towering wall of rock, she had taken off his coat, and was carrying it on her arm; so that there was nothing to mar the effect of her dainty openwork waist, with its elbow sleeves and graceful collar and the filmy veil of lace over the shoulders and bosom. Her skirt had been washed clean by the rain, and she had managed to stretch it into shape before drying.

Refreshed by a nap in the forenoon and by her salt-water dip, she showed more vivacity than at any time that Winthrope could remember during their acquaintance. Her suffering during and since the storm had left its mark in the dark circles beneath her hazel eyes, but this in no wise lessened their brightness; while the elasticity of her step showed that she had quite recovered her well-bred ease and grace of movement.

She bowed and smiled to the two men impartially. “Good-afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Same to you, Miss Leslie!” responded Blake, staring at her with frank admiration. “You look fresh as a daisy.”

Genial and sincere as was his tone, the familiarity jarred on her sensitive ear. She colored as she turned from him.

“Is there anything new, Mr. Winthrope?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Genevieve. Like ourselves, Blake took a nap.”

“Yes; but Blake first took a squint at the scenery. Just see if you’ve got everything, and fix your hats. We’ll be in the sun for half a mile or so. Better get on the coat, Miss Leslie. It’s hotter than yesterday.”

“Permit me,” said Winthrope.

Blake watched while the Englishman held the coat for the girl and rather fussily raised the collar about her neck and turned back the sleeves, which extended beyond the tips of her fingers. The American’s face was stolid; but his glance took in every little look and act of his companions. He was not altogether unversed in the ways of good society, and it seemed to him that the Englishman was somewhat over-assiduous in his attentions.

“All ready, Blake,” remarked Winthrope, finally, with a last lingering touch.

“’Bout time!” grunted Blake. “You’re fussy as a tailor. Got the flask and cigarette case and the knife?”

“All safe, sir–er–all safe, Blake.”

“Then you two follow me slow enough not to worry that ankle. I don’t want any more of the pack-mule in mine.”

“Where are we going, Mr. Blake?” exclaimed Miss Leslie. “You will not leave us again!”

“It’s only a half-mile, Miss Jenny. There’s a break in the ridge. I’m going on ahead to find if it’s hard to climb.”

“But why should we climb?”

“Food, for one thing. You see, this end of the cliff is covered with sea-birds. Another thing, I expect to strike a spring.”

“Oh, I hope you do! The water in the rain pools is already warm.”

“They’ll be dry in a day or two. Say, Winthrope, you might fetch some of those stones–size of a ball. I used to be a fancy pitcher when I was a kid, and we might scare up a rabbit or something.”

“I play cricket myself. But these stones–”

“Better’n a gun, when you haven’t got the gun. Come on. We’ll go in a bunch, after all, in case I need stones.”

With due consideration for Winthrope’s ankle,–not for Winthrope,–Blake set so slow a pace that the half-mile’s walk consumed over half an hour. But his smouldering irritation was soon quenched when they drew near the green thicket at the foot of the cleft. In the almost deathlike stillness of mid-afternoon, the sound of trickling water came to their ears, clear and musical.

“A spring!” shouted Blake. “I guessed right. Look at those green plants and grass; there’s the channel where it runs out in the sand and dries up.”

The others followed him eagerly as he pushed in among the trees. They saw no running water, for the tiny rill that trickled down the ledges was matted over with vines. But at the foot of the slope lay a pool, some ten yards across, and overshadowed by the surrounding trees. There was no underbrush, and the ground was trampled bare as a floor.

“By Jove,” said Winthrope; “see the tracks! There must have been a drove of sheep about.”

“Deer, you mean,” replied Blake, bending to examine the deeper prints at the edge of the pool. “These ain’t sheep tracks. A lot of them are larger.”

“Could you not uncover the brook?” asked Miss Leslie. “If animals have been drinking here, one would prefer cleaner water.”

“Sure,” assented Blake. “If you’re game for a climb, and can wait a few minutes, we’ll get it out of the spring itself. We’ve got to go up anyway, to get at our poultry yard.”

“Here’s a place that looks like a path,” called Winthrope, who had circled about the edge of the pool to the farther side.

Blake ran around beside him, and stared at the tunnel-like passage which wound up the limestone ledges beneath the over-arching thickets.

“Odd place, is it not?” observed Winthrope. “Looks like a fox run, only larger, you know.”

“Too low for deer, though–and their hoofs would have cut up the moss and ferns more. Let’s get a close look.”

As he spoke, Blake stooped and climbed a few yards up the trail to an overhanging ledge, four or five feet high. Where the trail ran up over this break in the slope the stone was bare of all vegetation. Blake laid his club on the top of the ledge, and was about to vault after it, when, directly beneath his nose, he saw the print of a great catlike paw, outlined in dried mud. At the same instant a deep growl came rumbling down the “fox run.” Without waiting for a second warning, Blake drew his club to him, and crept back down the trail. His stealthy movements and furtive backward glances filled his companions with vague terror. He himself was hardly less alarmed.

“Get out of the trees–into the open!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, and as they crept away, white with dread of the unknown danger, he followed at their heels, looking backward, his club raised in readiness to strike.

Once clear of the trees, Winthrope caught Miss Leslie by the hand, and broke into a run. In their terror, they paid no heed to Blake’s command to stop. They had darted off so unexpectedly that he did not overtake them short of a hundred yards.

“Hold on!” he said, gripping Winthrope roughly by the shoulder. “It’s safe enough here, and you’ll knock out that blamed ankle.”

“What is it? What did you see?” gasped Miss Leslie.

“Footprint,” mumbled Blake, ashamed of his fright.

“A lion’s?” cried Winthrope.

“Not so large–’bout the size of a puma’s. Must be a leopard’s den up there. I heard a growl, and thought it about time to clear out.”

“By Jove, we’d better withdraw around the point!”

“Withdraw your aunty! There’s no leopard going to tackle us out here in open ground this time of day. The sneaking tomcat! If only I had a match, I’d show him how we smoke rat holes.”

“Mr. Winthrope spoke of rubbing sticks to make fire,” suggested Miss Leslie.

“Make sweat, you mean. But we may as well try it now, if we’re going to at all. The sun’s hot enough to fry eggs. We’ll go back to a shady place, and pick up sticks on the way.”

Though there was shade under the cliff within some six hundred feet, they had to go some distance to the nearest dry wood–a dead thorp-bush. Here they gathered a quantity of branches, even Miss Leslie volunteering to carry a load.

All was thrown down in a heap near the cliff, and Blake squatted beside it, penknife in hand. Having selected the dryest of the larger sticks, he bored a hole in one side and dropped in a pinch of powdered bark. Laying the stick in the full glare of the sun, he thrust a twig into the hole, and began to twirl it between his palms. This movement he kept up for several minutes; but whether he was unable to twirl the twig fast enough, or whether the right kind of wood or tinder was lacking, all his efforts failed to produce a spark.

Unwilling to accept the failure, Winthrope insisted upon trying in turn, and pride held him to the task until he was drenched with sweat. The result was the same.

“Told you so,” jeered Blake from where he. lay in the shade. “We’d stand more chance cracking stones together.”

“But what shall we do now?” asked Miss Leslie. “I am becoming very tired of cocoanuts, and there seems to be nothing else around here. Indeed, I think this is all such a waste of time. If we had walked straight along the shore this morning we might have reached a town.”

“We might, Miss Jenny, and then, again, we mightn’t. I happened to overhaul the captain’s chart–Quilimane, Mozambique–that’s all for hundreds of miles. Towns on this coast are about as thick as hens’-teeth.”

“How about native villages?” demanded Winthrope.

“Oh, yes; maybe I’m fool enough to go into a wild nigger town without a gun. Maybe I didn’t talk with fellows down on the Rand.”

“But what shall we do?” repeated Miss Leslie, with a little frightened catch in her voice. She was at last beginning to realize what this rude break in her sheltered, pampered life might mean. “What shall we do? It’s–it’s absurd to think of having to stay in this horrid country for weeks or perhaps months–unless some ship comes for us!”

“Look here, Miss Leslie,” answered Blake, sharply yet not unkindly; “suppose you just sit back and use your thinker a bit. If you’re your daddy’s daughter, you’ve got brains somewhere down under the boarding-school stuff.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Now, don’t get huffy, please! It’s a question of think, not of putting on airs. Here we are, worse off than the people of the Stone Age. They had fire and flint axes; we’ve got nothing but our think tanks, and as to lions and leopards and that sort of thing, it strikes me we’ve got about as many on hand as they had.”

“Then you and Mr. Winthrope should immediately arm yourselves.”

“How?–But we’ll leave that till later. What else?”

The girl gazed at the surrounding objects, her forehead wrinkled in the effort at concentration. “We must have water. Think how we suffered yesterday! Then there is shelter from wild beasts, and food, and–”

“All right here under our hands, if we had fire. Understand?”

“I understand about the water. You would frighten the leopard away with the fire; and if it would do that, it would also keep away the other animals at night. But as for food, unless we return for cocoanuts–”

“Don’t give it up! Keep your thinker going on the side, while Pat tells us our next move. Now that he’s got the fire sticks out of his head–”

“I say, Blake, I wish you would drop that name. It is no harder to say Winthrope.”

“You’re off, there,” rejoined Blake. “But look here, I’ll make it Win, if you figure out what we ought to do next.”

“Really, Blake, that would not be half bad. They–er–they called me Win at Harrow.”

“That so? My English chum went to Harrow–Jimmy Scarbridge.”

“Lord James!–your chum?”

“He started in like you, sort of top-lofty. But he chummed all right–after I took out a lot of his British starch with a good walloping.”

“Oh, really now, Blake, you can’t expect any one with brains to believe that, you know!”

“No; I don’t know, you know,–and I don’t know if you’ve got any brains, you know. Here’s your chance to show us. What’s our next move?”

“Really, now, I have had no experience in this sort of thing–don’t interrupt, please! It seems to me that our first concern is shelter for the night. If we should return to your tree nest, we should also be near the cocoa palms.”

“That’s one side. Here’s the other. Bar to wade across–sharks and alligators; then swampy ground–malaria, mosquitoes, thorn jungle. Guess the hands of both of you are still sore enough, by their look.”

“If only I had a pot of cold cream!” sighed Miss Leslie.

“If only I had a hunk of jerked beef!” echoed Blake.

“I say, why couldn’t we chance it for the night around on the seaward face of the cliff?” asked Winthrope. “I noticed a place where the ledges overhang–almost a cave. Do you think it probable that any wild beast would venture so close to the sea?”

“Can’t say. Didn’t see any tracks; so we’ll chance it for to-night. Next!”

“By morning I believe my ankle will be in such shape that I could go back for the string of cocoanuts which we dropped on the beach.”

“I’ll go myself, to-day, else we’ll have no supper. Now we’re getting down to bedrock. If those nuts haven’t been washed away by the tide, we’re fixed for to-night; and for two meals, such as they are. But what next? Even the rain pools will be dried up by another day or so.”

“Are not sea-birds good to eat?” inquired Miss Leslie.

“Some.”

“Then, if only we could climb the cliff–might there not be another place?”

“No; I’ve looked at both sides. What’s more, that spotted tomcat has got a monopoly on our water supply. The river may be fresh at low tide; but we’ve got nothing to boil water in, and such bayou stuff is just concentrated malaria.”

“Then we must find water elsewhere,” responded Miss Leslie. “Might we not succeed if we went on to the other ridge?”

“That’s the ticket! You’ve got a headpiece, Miss Jenny! It’s too late to start now. But first thing to-morrow I’ll take a run down that way, while you two lay around camp and see if you can twist some sort of fish-line out of cocoanut fibre. By braiding your hair, Miss Jenny, you can spare us your hair-pins for hooks.”

“But, Mr. Blake, I’m afraid–I’d rather you’d take us with you. With that dreadful creature so near–”

“Well, I don’t know. Let’s see your feet?”

Miss Leslie glanced at him, and thrust a slender foot from beneath her skirt.

“Um-m–stocking torn; but those slippers are tougher than I thought. Most of the way will be good walking, along the beach. We’ll leave the fishing to Pat–er–beg pardon–Win! With his ankle–”

“By Jove, Blake, I’ll chance the ankle. Don’t leave me behind. I give you my word, you’ll not have to lug me.”

“Oh, of course, Mr. Winthrope must go with us!”

“’Fraid to go alone, eh?” demanded Blake, frowning.

His tone startled and offended her; yet all he saw was a politely quizzical lifting of her brows.

“Why should I be afraid, Mr. Blake?” she asked.

Blake stared at her moodily. But when she met his gaze with a confiding smile, he flushed and looked away.

“All right,” he muttered; “well move camp together. But don’t expect me to pack his ludship, if we draw a blank and have to trek back without food or water.”

CHAPTER IX
THE LEOPARDS’ DEN

While Blake made a successful trip for the abandoned cocoanuts, his companions levelled the stones beneath the ledges chosen by Winthrope, and gathered enough dried sea-weed along the talus to soften the hard beds.

Soothed by the monotonous wash of the sea among the rocks, even Miss Leslie slept well. Blake, who had insisted that she should retain his coat, was wakened by the chilliness preceding the dawn. Five minutes later they started on their journey.

The starlight glimmered on the waves and shed a faint radiance over the rocks. This and their knowledge of the way enabled them to pick a path along the foot of the cliff without difficulty. Once on the beach, they swung along at a smart gait, invigorated by the cool air.

Dawn found them half way to their goal. Blake called a halt when the first red streaks shot up the eastern sky. All stood waiting until the quickly following sun sprang forth from the sea. Blake’s first act was to glance from one headland to the other, estimating their relative distances. His grunt of satisfaction was lost in Winthrope’s exclamation, “By Jove, look at the cattle!”

Blake and Miss Leslie turned to stare at the droves of animals moving about between them and the border of the tall grass. Miss Leslie was the first to speak. “They can’t be cattle, Mr. Winthrope. There are some with stripes. I do believe they’re zebras!”

“Get down!” commanded Blake. “They’re all wild game. Those big ox-like fellows to the left of the zebras are eland. Whee! wouldn’t we be in it if we owned that water hole? I’ll bet I’d have one of those fat beeves inside three days.”

“How I should enjoy a juicy steak!” murmured Miss Leslie.

“Raw or jerked?” questioned Blake.

“What is ‘jerked’?”

“Dried.”

“Oh, no; I mean broiled–just red inside.”

“I prefer mine quite rare,” added Winthrope.

“That’s the way you’ll get it, damned rare–Beg your pardon, Miss Jenny! Without fire, we’ll have the choice of raw or jerked.”

“Horrors!”

“Jerked meat is all right. You cut your game in strips–”

“With a penknife!” laughed Miss Leslie.

Blake stared at her glumly. “That’s so. You’ve got it back on me– Butcher a beef with a penknife! We’ll have to take it raw, and dog-fashion at that.”

“Haven’t I heard of bamboo knives?” said Winthrope.

“Bamboo?”

“I’m sure I can’t say, but as I remember, it seems to me that the varnish-like glaze–”

“Silica? Say, that would cut meat. But where in–where in hades are the bamboos?”

“I’m sure I can’t say. Only I remember that I have seen them in other tropical places, you know.”

“Meantime I prefer cocoanuts, until we have a fire to broil our steaks,” remarked Miss Leslie.

“Ditto, Miss Jenny, long’s we have the nuts and no meat. I’m a vegetarian now–but maybe my mouth ain’t watering for something else. Look at all those chops and roasts and stews running around out there!”

“They are making for the grass,” observed Winthrope. “Hadn’t we better start?”

“Nuts won’t weigh so much without the shells. We’ll eat right here.”

There were only a few nuts left. They were drained and cracked and scooped out, one after another. The last chanced to break evenly across the middle.

“Hello,” said Blake, “the lower part of this will do for a bowl, Miss Jenny. When you’ve eaten the cream, put it in your pocket. Say, Win, have you got the bottle and keys and–”

“All safe–everything.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Winthrope?” asked Miss Leslie. “Men’s pockets seem so open. Twice I’ve had to pick up Mr. Blake’s locket.”

“Locket?” echoed Blake.

“The ivory locket. Women may be curious, Mr. Blake, but I assure you, I did not look inside, though–”

“Let me–give it here–quick!” gasped Blake.

Startled by his tone and look, Miss Leslie caught an oval object from the side pocket of the coat, and thrust it into Blake’s outstretched hand. For a moment he stared at it, unable to believe his eyes; then he leaped up, with a yell that sent the droves of zebras and antelope flying into the tall grass.

“Oh! oh!” screamed Miss Leslie. “Is it a snake? Are you bitten?”

“Bitten?–Yes, by John Barleycorn! Must have been fuzzy drunk to put it in my coat. Always carry it in my fob pocket. What a blasted infernal idiot I’ve been! Kick me, Win,–kick me hard!”

“I say, Blake, what is it? I don’t quite take you. If you would only–”

“Fire!–fire! Can’t you see? We’ve got all hell beat! Look here.”

He snapped open the slide of the supposed locket, and before either of his companions could realize what he would be about, was focussing the lens of a surveyor’s magnifying-glass upon the back of Winthrope’s hand. The Englishman jerked the hand away–

“Ow! That burns!”

Blake shook the glass in their bewildered faces.

“Look there!” he shouted, “there’s fire; there’s water; there’s birds’ eggs and beefsteaks! Here’s where we trek on the back trail. We’ll smoke out that leopard in short order!”

“You don’t mean to say, Blake–”

“No; I mean to do! Don’t worry. You can hide with Miss Jenny on the point, while I engineer the deal. Fall in.”

The day was still fresh when they found themselves back at the foot of the cliff. Here arose a heated debate between the men. Winthrope, stung by Blake’s jeering words, insisted upon sharing the attack, though with no great enthusiasm. Much to Blake’s surprise, Miss Leslie came to the support of the Englishman.

“But, Mr. Blake,” she argued, “you say it will be perfectly safe for us here. If so, it will be safe for myself alone.”

“I can play this game without him.”

“No doubt. Yet if, as you say, you expect to keep off the leopard with a torch, would it not be well to have Mr. Winthrope at hand with other torches, should yours burn out?”

“Yes; if I thought he’d be at hand after the first scare.”

Winthrope started off, almost on a run. At that moment he might have faced the leopard single-handed. Blake chuckled as he swung away after his victim. Within ten paces, however, he paused to call back over his shoulder: “Get around the point, Miss Jenny, and if you want something to do, try braiding the cocoanut fibre.”

Miss Leslie made no response; but she stood for some time gazing after the two men. There was so much that was characteristic even in this rear view. For all his anger and his haste, the Englishman bore himself with an air of well-bred nicety. His trim, erect figure needed only a fresh suit to be irreproachable. On the other hand, a careless observer, at first glance, might have mistaken Blake, with his flannel shirt and shouldered club, for a hulking navvy. But there was nothing of the navvy in his swinging stride or in the resolute poise of his head as he came up with Winthrope.

Though the girl was not given to reflection, the contrast between the two could not but impress her. How well her countryman–coarse, uncultured, but full of brute strength and courage–fitted in with these primitive surroundings. Whereas Winthrope . . . . and herself . . . .

She fell into a kind of disquieted brown study. Her eyes had an odd look, both startled and meditative,–such a look as might be expected of one who for the first time is peering beneath the surface of things, and sees the naked Realities of Life, the real values, bared of masking conventions. It may have been that she was seeking to ponder the meaning of her own existence–that she had caught a glimpse of the vanity and wastefulness, the utter futility of her life. At the best, it could only have been a glimpse. But was not that enough?

“Of what use are such people as I?” she cried. “That man may be rough and coarse,–even a brute; but he at least does things–I’ll show him that I can do things, too!”

She hastened out around the corner of the cliff to the spot where they had spent the night. Here she gathered together the cocoanut husks, and seating herself in the shade of the overhanging ledges, began to pick at the coarse fibre. It was cruel work for her soft fingers, not yet fully healed from the thorn wounds. At times the pain and an overpowering sense of injury brought tears to her eyes; still more often she dropped the work in despair of her awkwardness. Yet always she returned to the task with renewed energy.

After no little perseverance, she found how to twist the fibre and plait it into cord. At best it was slow work, and she did not see how she should ever make enough cord for a fish-line. Yet, as she caught the knack of the work and her fingers became more nimble, she began to enjoy the novel pleasure of producing something.

She had quite forgot to feel injured, and was learning to endure with patience the rasping of the fibre between her fingers, when Winthrope came clambering around the corner of the cliff.

“What is it?” she exclaimed, springing up and hurrying to meet him. He was white and quivering, and the look in his eyes filled her with dread.

Her voice shrilled to a scream, “He’s dead!”

Winthrope shook his head.

“Then he’s hurt!–he’s hurt by that savage creature, and you’ve run off and left him–”

“No, no, Miss Genevieve, I must insist! The fellow is not even scratched.”

“Then why–?”

“It was the horror of it all. It actually made me ill.”

“You frightened me almost to death. Did the beast chase you?”

“That would have been better, in a way. Really, it was horrible! I’m still sick over it, Miss Genevieve.”

“But tell me about it. Did you set fire to the bushes in the cleft, as Mr. Blake–”

“Yes; after we had fetched what we could carry of that long grass–two big trusses. It grows ten or twelve feet tall, and is now quite dry. Part of it Blake made into torches, and we fired the bush all across the foot of the cleft. Really, one would not have thought there was that much dry wood in so green a dell. On either side of the rill the grass and brush flared like tinder, and the flames swept up the cleft far quicker than we had expected. We could hear them crackling and roaring louder than ever after the smoke shut out our view.”

“Surely, there is nothing so very horrible in that.”

“No, oh, no; it was not that. But the beast–the leopard! At first we heard one roar; then it was that dreadful snarling and yelling–most awful squalling! . . . . The wretched thing came leaping and tumbling down the path, all singed and blinded. Blake fired the big truss of grass, and the brute rolled right into the flames. It was shocking–dreadfully shocking! The wretched creature writhed and leaped about till it plunged into the pool. . . . . When it sought to crawl out, all black and hideous, Blake went up and killed it with his club–crushed in its skull–Ugh!”

Miss Leslie gazed at the unnerved Englishman with calm scrutiny.

“But why should you feel so about it?” she asked. “Was it not the beast’s life against ours?”

“But so horrible a death!”

“I’m sure Mr. Blake would have preferred to shoot the creature, had he a gun. Having nothing else than fire, I think it was all very brave of him. Now we are sure of water and food. Had we not best be going?”

“It was to fetch you that Blake sent me.”

Winthrope spoke with perceptible stiffness. He was chagrined, not only by her commendation of Blake, but by the indifference with which she had met his agitation.

They started at once, Miss Leslie in the lead. As they rounded the point, she caught sight of the smoke still rising from the cleft. A little later she noticed the vultures which were streaming down out of the sky from all quarters other than seaward. Their focal point seemed to be the trees at the foot of the cleft. A nearer view showed that they were alighting in the thorn bushes on the south border of the wood.

Of Blake there was nothing to be seen until Miss Leslie, still in the lead, pushed in among the trees. There they found him crouched beside a small fire, near the edge of the pool. He did not look up. His eyes were riveted in a hungry stare upon several pieces of flesh, suspended over the flames on spits of green twigs.

“Hello!” he sang out, as he heard their footsteps. “Just in time, Miss Jenny. Your broiled steak’ll be ready in short order.”

“Oh, build up the fire! I’m simply ravenous!” she exclaimed, between impatience and delight.

Winthrope was hardly less keen; yet his hunger did not altogether blunt his curiosity.

“I say, Blake,” he inquired, “where did you get the meat?”

“Stow it, Win, my boy. This ain’t a packing house. The stuff may be tough, but it’s not–er–the other thing. Here you are, Miss Jenny. Chew it off the stick.”

Though Winthrope had his suspicions, he took the piece of half-burned flesh which Blake handed him in turn, and fell to eating without further question. As Blake had surmised, the roast proved far other than tender. Hunger, however, lent it a most appetizing flavor. The repast ended when there was nothing left to devour. Blake threw away his empty spit, and rose to stretch. He waited for Miss Leslie to swallow her last mouthful, and then began to chuckle.

“What’s the joke?” asked Winthrope.

Blake looked at him solemnly.

“Well now, that was downright mean of me,” he drawled; “after robbing them, to laugh at it!”

“Robbing who?”

“The buzzards.”

“You’ve fed us on leopard meat! It’s–it’s disgusting!”

“I found it filling. How about you, Miss Jenny?”

Miss Leslie did not know whether to laugh or to give way to a feeling of nausea. She did neither.

“Can we not find the spring of which you spoke?” she asked. “I am thirsty.”

“Well, I guess the fire is about burnt out,” assented Blake. “Come on; we’ll see.”

The cleft now had a far different aspect from what it had presented on their first visit. The largest of the trees, though scorched about the base, still stood with unwithered foliage, little harmed by the fire. But many of their small companions had been killed and partly destroyed by the heat and flames from the burning brush. In places the fire was yet smouldering.

Blake picked a path along the edge of the rill, where the moist vegetation, though scorched, had refused to burn. After the first abrupt ledge, up which Blake had to drag his companions, the ascent was easy. But as they climbed around an outjutting corner of the steep right wall of the cleft, Blake muttered a curse of disappointment. He could now see that the cleft did not run to the top of the cliff, but through it, like a tiny box canyon. The sides rose sheer and smooth as walls. Midway, at the highest point of the cleft, the baobab towered high above the ridge crest, its gigantic trunk filling a third of the breadth of the little gorge. Unfortunately it stood close to the left wall.

“Here’s luck for you!” growled Blake. “Why couldn’t the blamed old tree have grown on the other side? We might have found a way to climb it. Guess we’ll have to smoke out another leopard. We’re no nearer those birds’ nests than we were yesterday.”

“By Jove, look here!” exclaimed Winthrope. “This is our chance for antelope! Here by the spring are bamboos–real bamboos,–and only half the thicket burned.”

“What of them?” demanded Blake.

“Bows–arrows–and did you not agree that they would make knives?”

“Umph–we’ll see. What is it, Miss Jenny?”

“Isn’t that a hole in the big tree?”

“Looks like it. These baobabs are often hollow.”

“Perhaps that is where the leopard had his den,” added Winthrope.

“Shouldn’t wonder. We’ll go and see.”

“But, Mr. Blake,” protested the girl, “may there not be other leopards?”

“Might have been; but I’ll bet they lit out with the other. Look how the tree is scorched. Must have been stacks of dry brush around the hole, ’nough to smoke out a fireman. We’ll look and see if they left any soup bones lying around. First, though, here’s your drink, Miss Jenny.”

As he spoke, Blake kicked aside some smouldering branches, and led the way to the crevice whence the spring trickled from the rock into a shallow stone basin. When all had drunk their fill of the clear cool water, Blake took up his club and walked straight across to the baobab. Less than thirty steps brought him to the narrow opening in the trunk of the huge tree. At first he could make out nothing in the dimly lit interior; but the fetid, catty odor was enough to convince him that he had found the leopards’ den.

He caught the vague outlines of a long body, crouched five or six yards away, on the far side of the hollow. He sprang back, his club brandished to strike. But the expected attack did not follow. Blake glanced about as though considering the advisability of a retreat. Winthrope and Miss Leslie were staring at him, white-faced. The sight of their terror seemed to spur him to dare-devil bravado; though his actions may rather have been due to the fact that he realized the futility of flight, and so rose to the requirements of the situation–the grim need to stand and face the danger.

“Get behind the bamboos!” he called, and as they hurriedly obeyed, he caught up a stone and flung it in at the crouching beast.

He heard the missile strike with a soft thud that told him he had not missed his mark, and he swung up his club in both hands. Given half a chance, he would smash the skull of the female leopard as he had crushed her blinded mate. . . . . One moment after another passed, and he stood poised for the shock, tense and scowling. . . . . Not so much as a snarl came from within. The truth flashed upon him.

“Smothered!” he yelled.

The others saw him dart in through the hole. A moment later two limp grayish bodies were flung out into the open. Immediately after, Blake reappeared, dragging the body of the mother leopard.

“It’s all right; they’re dead!” cried Winthrope, and he ran forward to look at the bodies.

Miss Leslie followed, hardly less curious.

“Are they all dead, Mr. Blake?” she inquired.

“Wiped out–whole family. The old cat stayed by her kittens, and all smothered together–lucky for us! Get busy with those bamboos, Win. I’m going to have these skins, and the sooner we get the cub meat hung up and curing, the better for us.”

“Leopard meat again!” rejoined Winthrope.

“Spring leopard, young and tender! What more could you ask? Get a move on you.”

“Can I do anything, Mr. Blake?” asked Miss Leslie.

“Hunt a shady spot.”

“But I really mean it.”

“Well, if that’s straight, you might go on along the gully, and see if there’s any place to get to the top. You could pick up sticks on the way back, if any are left. We’ll have to fumigate this tree hole before we adopt it for a residence.”

“Will it be long before you finish with your–with the bodies?”

“Well, now, look here, Miss Jenny; it’s going to be a mess, and I wouldn’t mind hauling the carcasses clear down the gully, out of sight, if it was to be the only time. But it’s not, and you’ve got to get used to it, sooner or later. So we’ll start now.”

“I suppose, if I must, Mr. Blake– Really, I wish to help.”

“Good. That’s something like! Think you can learn to cook?”

“See what I did this morning.”

Blake took the cord of cocoanut fibre which she held out to him, and tested its strength.

“Well, I’ll be–blessed!” he said. “This is something like. If you don’t look out, you’ll make quite a camp-mate, Miss Jenny. But now, trot along. This is hardly arctic weather, and our abattoir don’t include a cold-storage plant. The sooner these lambs are dressed, the better.”

CHAPTER X
PROBLEMS IN WOODCRAFT

It was no pleasant sight that met Miss Leslie’s gaze upon her return. The neatest of butchering can hardly be termed aesthetic; and Blake and Winthrope lacked both skill and tools. Between the penknife and an improvised blade of bamboo, they had flayed the two cubs and haggled off the flesh. The ragged strips, spitted on bamboo rods, were already searing in the fierce sun-rays.

Miss Leslie would have slipped into the hollow of the baobab with her armful of fagots and brush; but Blake waved a bloody knife above the body of the mother leopard, and beckoned the girl to come nearer.

“Hold on a minute, please,” he said. “What did you find out?”

Miss Leslie drew a few steps nearer, and forced herself to look at the revolting sight. She found it still more difficult to withstand the odor of the fresh blood. Winthrope was pale and nauseated. The sight of his distress caused the girl to forget her own loathing. She drew a deep breath, and succeeded in countering Blake’s expectant look with a half-smile.

“How well you are getting along!” she exclaimed.

“Didn’t think you could stand it. But you’ve got grit all right, if you are a lady,” Blake said admiringly. “Say, you’ll make it yet! Now, how about the gully?”

“There is no place to climb up. It runs along like this, and then slopes down. But there is a cliff at the end, as high as these walls.”

“Twenty feet,” muttered Blake. “Confound the luck! It isn’t that jump-off; but how in–how are we going to get up on the cliff? There’s an everlasting lot of omelettes in those birds’ nests. If only that bloomin’–how’s that, Win, me b’y?–that bloomin’, blawsted baobab was on t’ other side. The wood’s almost soft as punk. We could drive in pegs, and climb up the trunk.”

“There are other trees beyond it,” remarked Miss Leslie.

“Then maybe we can shin up–”

“I fear the branches that overhang the cliff are too slender to bear any weight.”

“And it’s too infernally high to climb up to this overhanging baobab limb.”

“I say,” ventured Winthrope, “if we had a axe, now, we might cut up one of the trees, and make a ladder.”

“Oh, yes; and if we had a ladder, we might climb up the cliff!”

“But, Mr. Blake, is there not some way to cut down one of the trees? The tree itself would be a ladder if it fell in such a way as to lean against the cliff.”

“There’s only the penknife,” answered Blake. “So I guess we’ll have to scratch eggs off our menu card. Spring leopard for ours! Now, if you really want to help, you might scrape the soup bones out of your boudoir, and fetch a lot more brush. It’ll take a big fire to rid the hole of that cat smell.”

“Will not the tree burn?”

“No; these hollow baobabs have green bark on the inside as well as out. Funny thing, that! We’d have to keep a fire going a long time to burn through.”

“Yet it would burn in time?”

“Yes; but we’re not going to–”

“Then why not burn through the trunk of one of those small trees, instead of chopping it down?”

“By–heck, Miss Jenny, you’ve got an American headpiece! Come on. Sooner we get the thing started, the better.”

Neither Winthrope nor Miss Leslie was reluctant to leave the vicinity of the carcasses. They followed close after Blake, around the monstrous bole of the baobab. A little beyond it stood a group of slender trees, whose trunks averaged eight inches thick at the base. Blake stopped at the second one, which grew nearest to the seaward side of the cleft.

“Here’s our ladder,” he said. “Get some firewood. Pound the bushes, though, before you go poking into them. May be snakes here.”

“Snakes?–oh!” cried Miss Leslie, and she stood shuddering at the danger she had already incurred.

The fire had burnt itself out on a bare ledge of rock between them and the baobab, and the clumps of dry brush left standing in this end of the cleft were very suggestive of snakes, now that Blake had called attention to the possibility of their presence.

He laughed at his hesitating companions. “Go on, go on! Don’t squeal till you’re bit. Most snakes hike out, if you give them half a chance. Take a stick, each of you, and pound the bushes.”

Thus urged, both started to work. But neither ventured into the thicker clumps. When they returned, with large armfuls of sticks and twigs, they found that Blake had used his glass to light a handful of dry bark, out in the sun, and was nursing it into a small fire at the base of the tree, on the side next the cliff.

“Now, Miss Jenny,” he directed, “you’re to keep this going–not too big a fire–understand? Same time you can keep on fetching brush to fumigate your cat hole. It needs it, all right.”

“Will not that be rather too much for Miss Leslie?” asked Winthrope.

“Well, if she’d rather come and rub brains on the skins,–Indian tan, you know,–or–”

“How can you mention such things before a lady?” protested Winthrope.

“Beg your pardon, Miss Leslie! you see, I’m not much used to ladies’ company. Anyway, you’ve got to see and hear about these things. And now I’ll have to get the strings for Win’s bamboo bows. Come on, Win. We’ve got that old tabby to peel, and a lot more besides.”

Miss Leslie’s first impulse was to protest against being left alone, when at any moment some awful venomous serpent might come darting at her out of the brush or the crevices in the rocks. But her half-parted lips drew firmly together, and after a moment’s hesitancy, she forced herself to the task which had been assigned her. The fire, once started, required little attention. She could give most of her time to gathering brush for the fumigation of the leopard den.

She had collected quite a heap of fuel at the entrance of the hollow, when she remembered that the place would first have to be cleared of its accumulation of bones. A glance at her companions showed that they were in the midst of tasks even more revolting. It was certainly disagreeable to do such things; yet, as Mr. Blake had said, others had to do them. It was now her time to learn. She could see him smile at her hesitation.

Stung by the thought of his half contemptuous pity, she caught up a forked stick, and forced herself to enter the tree-cave. The stench met her like a blow. It nauseated and all but overpowered her. She stood for several moments in the centre of the cavity, sick and faint. Had it been even the previous day, she would have run out into the open air.

Presently she grew a little more accustomed to the stench, and began to rake over the soft dry mould of the den floor with her forked stick. Bones!–who had ever dreamed of such a mess of bones?–big bones and little bones and skulls; old bones, dry and almost buried; mouldy bones; bones still half-covered with bits of flesh and gristle–the remnants of the leopard family’s last meal.

At last all were scraped out and flung in a heap, three or four yards away from the entrance. Miss Leslie looked at the result of her labor with a satisfied glance, followed by a sigh of relief. Between the heat and her unwonted exercise, she was greatly fatigued. She stepped around to a shadier spot to rest.

With a start, she remembered the fire.

When she reached it there were only a few dying embers left. She gathered dead leaves and shreds of fibrous inner bark, and knelt beside the dull coals to blow them into life. She could not bear the thought of having to confess her carelessness to Blake.

The hot ashes flew up in her face and powdered her hair with their gray dust; yet she persisted, blowing steadily until a shred of bark caught the sparks and flared up in a tiny flame. A little more, and she had a strong fire blazing against the tree trunk.

She rested a short time, relaxing both mentally and physically in the satisfying consciousness that Blake never should know how near she had come to failing in her trust.

Soon she became aware of a keen feeling of thirst and hunger. She rose, piled a fresh supply of sticks on the fire, and hastened back through the cleft towards the spring. Around the baobab she came upon Winthrope, working in the shade of the great tree. The three leopard skins had been stretched upon bamboo frames, and he was resignedly scraping at their inner surfaces with a smooth-edged stone. Miss Leslie did not look too closely at the operation.

“Where is–he?” she asked.

Winthrope motioned down the cleft.

“I hope he hasn’t gone far. I’m half famished. Aren’t you?”

“Really, Miss Genevieve, it is odd, you know. Not an hour since, the very thought of food–”

“And now you’re as hungry as I am. Oh, I do wish he had not gone off just at the wrong time!”

“He went to take a dip in the sea. You know, he got so messed up over the nastiest part of the work, which I positively refused to do–”

“What’s that beyond the bamboos?–There’s something alive!”

“Pray, don’t be alarmed. It is–er–it’s all right, Miss Genevieve, I assure you.”

“But what is it? Such queer noises, and I see something alive!”

“Only the vultures, if you must know. Nothing else, I assure you.”

“Oh!”

“It is all out of sight from the spring. You are not to go around the bamboos until the–that is, not to-day.”

“Did Mr. Blake say that?”

“Why, yes–to be sure. He also said to tell you that the cutlets were on the top shelf.”

“You mean –?”

“His way of ordering you to cook our dinner. Really, Miss Genevieve, I should be pleased to take your place, but I have been told to keep to this. It is hard to take orders from a low fellow,–very hard for a gentleman, you know.”

Miss Leslie gazed at her shapely hands. Three days since she could not have conceived of their being so rough and scratched and dirty. Yet her disgust at their condition was not entirely unqualified.

“At least I have something to show for them,” she murmured.

“I beg pardon,” said Winthrope.

“Just look at my hands–like a servant’s! And yet I am not nearly so ashamed of them as I would have fancied. It is very amusing, but do you know, I actually feel proud that I have done something–something useful, I mean.”

“Useful?–I call it shocking, Miss Genevieve. It is simply vile that people of our breeding should be compelled to do such menial work. They write no end of romances about castaways; but I fail to see the romance in scraping skins Indian fashion, as this fellow Blake calls it.”

“I suppose, though, we should remember how much Mr. Blake is doing for us, and should try to make the best of the situation.”

“It has no best. It is all a beastly muddle,” complained Winthrope, and he resumed his nervous scraping at the big leopard skin.

The girl studied his face for a moment, and turned away. She had been trying so hard to forget.

He heard her leave, and called after, without looking up: “Please remember. He said to cook some meat.”

She did not answer. Having satisfied her thirst at the spring, she took one of the bamboo rods, with its haggled blackening pieces of flesh, and returned to the fire. After some little experimenting, she contrived a way to support the rod beside the fire so that all the meat would roast without burning.

At first, keen as was her hunger, she turned with disgust from the flabby sun-seared flesh; but as it began to roast, the odor restored her appetite to full vigor. Her mouth fairly watered. It seemed as though Winthrope and Blake would never come. She heard their voices, and took the bamboo spit from the fire for the meat to cool. Still they failed to appear, and unable to wait longer, she began to eat. The cub meat proved far more tender than that of the old leopard. She had helped herself to the second piece before the two men appeared.

“Hold on, Miss Jenny; fair play!” sang out Blake. “You’ve set to without tooting the dinner-horn. I don’t blame you, though. That smells mighty good.”

Both men caught at the hot meat with eagerness, and Winthrope promptly forgot all else in the animal pleasure of satisfying his hunger. Blake, though no less hungry, only waited to fill his mouth before investigating the condition of the prospective tree ladder. The result of the attempt to burn the trunk did not seem encouraging to the others, and Miss Leslie looked away, that her face might not betray her, should he have an inkling of her neglect. She was relieved by the cheerfulness of his tone.

“Slow work, this fire business–eh? Guess, though, it’ll go faster this afternoon. The green wood is killed and is getting dried out. Anyway, we’ve got to keep at it till the tree goes over. This spring leopard won’t last long at the present rate of consumption, and we’ll need the eggs to keep us going till we get the hang of our bows.”

“What is that smoke back there?” interrupted Miss Leslie. “Can it be that the fire down the cleft has sprung up again?”

“No; it’s your fumigation. You had plenty of brush on hand, so I heaved it into the hole, and touched it off. While it’s burning out, you can put in time gathering grass and leaves for a bed.”

“Would you and Mr. Winthrope mind breaking off some bamboos for me?”

“What for?”

Miss Leslie colored and hesitated. “I–I should like to divide off a corner of the place with a wall or screen.”

Winthrope tried to catch Blake’s eye; but the American was gazing at Miss Leslie’s embarrassed face with a puzzled look. Her meaning dawned upon him, and he hastened to reply.

“All right, Miss Jenny. You can build your wall to suit yourself. But there’ll be no hurry over it. Until the rains begin, Win and I’ll sleep out in the open. We’ll have to take turn about on watch at night, anyway. If we don’t keep up a fire, some other spotted kitty will be sure to come nosing up the gully.”

“There must also be lions in the vicinity,” added Winthrope.

Miss Leslie said nothing until after the last pieces of meat had been handed around, and Blake sprang up to resume work.

“Mr. Blake,” she called, in a low tone; “one moment, please. Would it save much bother if a door was made, and you and Mr. Winthrope should sleep inside?”

“We’ll see about that later,” replied Blake, carelessly.

The girl bit her lip, and the tears started to her eyes. Even Winthrope had started off without expressing his appreciation. Yet he at least should have realized how much it had cost her to make such an offer.

By evening she had her tree-cave–house, she preferred to name it to herself–in a habitable condition. When the purifying fire had burnt itself out, leaving the place free from all odors other than the wholesome smell of wood smoke, she had asked Blake how she could rake out the ashes. His advice was to wet them down where they lay.

This was easier said than done. Fortunately, the spring was only a few yards distant, and after many trips, with her palm-leaf hat for bowl, the girl carried enough water to sprinkle all the powdery ashes. Over them she strewed the leaves and grass which she had gathered while the fire was burning. The driest of the grass, arranged in a far corner, promised a more comfortable bed than had been her lot for the last three nights.

During this work she had been careful not to forget the fire at the tree. Yet when, near sundown, she called the others to the third meal of leopard meat, Blake grumbled at the tree for being what he termed such a confounded tough proposition.

“Good thing there’s lots of wood here, Win,” he added. “We’ll keep this fire going till the blamed thing topples over, if it takes a year.”

“Oh, but you surely will not stay so far from the baobab to-night!” exclaimed Miss Leslie.

“Hold hard!” soothed Blake. “You’ve no license to get the jumps yet a while. We’ll have another fire by the baobab. So you needn’t worry.”

A few minutes later they went back to the baobab, and Winthrope began helping Miss Leslie to construct a bamboo screen in the narrow entrance of the tree-cave, while Blake built the second fire.

As Winthrope was unable to tell time by the stars, Blake took the first watch. At sunset, following the engineer’s advice, Winthrope lay down with his feet to the small watch-fire, and was asleep before twilight had deepened into night. Fagged out by the mental and bodily stress of the day, he slept so soundly that it seemed to him he had hardly lost consciousness when he was roused by a rough hand on his forehead.

“What is it?” he mumbled.

“’Bout one o’clock,” said Blake. “Wake up! I ran overtime, ’cause the morning watch is the toughest. But I can’t keep ’wake any longer.”

“I say, this is a beastly bore,” remarked Winthrope, sitting up.

“Um-m,” grunted Blake, who was already on his back.

Winthrope rubbed his eyes, rose wearily, and drew a blazing stick from the fire. With this upraised as a torch, he peered around into the darkness, and advanced towards the spring.

When, having satisfied his thirst, he returned somewhat hurriedly to the fire, he was startled by the sight of a pale face gazing at him from between the leaves of the bamboo screen.

“My dear Miss Genevieve, what is the matter?” he exclaimed.

“Hush! Is he asleep?”

“Like a top.”

“Thank Heaven! . . . . Good-night.”

“Good-night–er–I say, Miss Genevieve–”

But the girl disappeared, and Winthrope, after a glance at Blake’s placid face, hurried along the cleft to stack the other fire. When he returned he noticed two bamboo rods which Blake had begun to shape into bow staves. He looked them over, with a sneer at Blake’s seemingly unskilful workmanship; but he made no attempt to finish the bows.

CHAPTER XI
A DESPOILED WARDROBE

Soon after sunrise Miss Leslie was awakened by the snap and dull crash of a falling tree. She made a hasty toilet, and ran out around the baobab. The burned tree, eaten half through by the fire, had been pushed over against the cliff by Blake and Winthrope. Both had already climbed up, and now stood on the edge of the cliff.

“Hello, Miss Jenny!” shouted Blake. “We’ve got here at last. Want to come up?”

“Not now, thank you.”

“It’s easy enough. But you’re right. Try your hand again at the cutlets, won’t you? While they’re frying, we’ll get some eggs for dessert How does that strike you?”

“We have no way to cook them.”

“Roast ’em in the ashes. So long!”

Miss Leslie cooked breakfast over the watch-fire, for the other had been scattered and stamped out by the men when the tree fell. They came back in good time, walking carefully, that they might not break the eggs with which their pockets bulged. Between them, they had brought a round dozen and a half. Blake promptly began stowing all in the hot ashes, while Winthrope related their little adventure with unwonted enthusiasm.

“You should have come with us, Miss Genevieve,” he began. “This time of day it is glorious on the cliff top. Though the rock is bare, there is a fine view–”

“Fine view of grub near the end,” interpolated Blake.

“Ah, yes; the birds–you must take a look at them, Miss Genevieve! The sea end of the cliff is alive with them–hundreds and thousands, all huddled together and fighting for room. They are a sight, I assure you! They’re plucky, too. It was well we took sticks with us. As it was, one of the gannets–boobies, Blake calls them–caught me a nasty nip when I went to lift her off the nest.”

“Best way is to kick them off,” explained Blake. “But the point is that we’ve hopped over the starvation stile. Understand? The whole blessed cliff end is an omelette waiting for our pan. Pass the leopardettes, Miss Jenny.”

When the last bit of meat had disappeared, Blake raked the eggs from the ashes, and began to crack them, solemnly sniffing at each before he laid it on its leaf platter. Some were a trifle “high.” None, however, were thrown away.

When it was all over, Winthrope contemplated the scattered shells with a satisfied air.

“Do you know,” he remarked, “this is the first time I have felt–er–replenished since we found those cocoanuts.”

“How about one of ’em now to top off on?” questioned Blake.

Miss Leslie sighed. “Why did you speak of them! I am still hungry enough to eat more eggs–a dozen–that is, if we had a little salt and butter.”

“And a silver cup and napkins!” added Blake. “About the salt, though, we’ll have to get some before long, and some kind of vegetable food. It won’t do to keep up this whole meat menu.”

“If only those little bamboo sprouts were as good as they look–like a kind of asparagus!” murmured Miss Leslie.

“I’ve heard that the Chinese eat them,” said Winthrope.

“They eat rats, too,” commented Blake.

“We might at least try them,” persisted Miss Leslie.

“How? Raw?”

“I have heard papa tell of roasting corn when he was a boy.”

“That’s so; and roasting-ears are better than boiled. Win, I guess we’ll have a sample of bamboo asparagus à la Les-lee!”

Winthrope took the penknife, and fetched a handful of young sprouts from the bamboo thicket. They were heated over the coals on a grill of green branches, and devoured half raw.

“Say,” mumbled Blake, as he ruminated on the last shoot, “we’re getting on some for this smell hole of a coast: house and chicken ranch, and vegetables in our front yard– We’ve got old Bobbie Crusoe beat, hands down, on the start-off, and he with his shipful of stuff for handicap!”

“Then you believe that the situation looks more hopeful, Mr. Blake?”

“Well, we’ve at least got an extension on our note for a week or two. But I’m not going to coddle you with a lot of lies, Miss Jenny. There’s the fever coming, sure as fate. I may stave it off a while; you and Win, ten to one, will be down in a few days–and not a smell of quinine in our commissary. Then there’ll be dysentery and snakes and wild beasts–No; we’re not out of the woods yet, not by a–considerable.”

“By Jove, Blake,” muttered Winthrope, “I must say, you’re not very encouraging.”

“Didn’t say I was trying to be.”

“But, Mr. Blake, I am sure papa will offer a large reward when the steamer is reported as lost. There will be ships searching for us–”

“We’re not in the British Channel, and I’ll bet what few boats do coast along here don’t nose about much among these coral reefs.”

“I fancy it would do no harm to erect a signal,” said Winthrope.

“Only thing that would make a show is Miss Leslie’s skirt,” replied Blake.

“There is the big leopard skin,” persisted Winthrope. To his surprise the engineer took the suggestion under serious consideration.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “If we had a water background, now. But against the rock and trees,–no; what we want is white. I’ll tell you–when Miss Jenny sets to and makes herself a dress of that skin, I’ll fly her skirt to the zephyrs.”

“Mr. Blake! I really think that is cruel of you!”

“Oh, come now; that’s not fair! I wouldn’t have said a word, but you said you wanted to help.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake. I–I did not quite understand you. I really do want to help–to do my share–”

“Now you’re talking! You see, it’s not only a question of the signal, but of clothes. We’ve got to figure anyway on needing new ones before long. Look at my pants and vest, and Win’s too. Inside a month we’ll all be in hide–or in hiding. That’s a joke, Win, me b’y; see?”

“But in the meantime–” began Miss Leslie.

“In the meantime we’re like to miss a chance or two of being picked up, just because we’ve failed to stick out a signal that’d catch the eye twice as far off as any other color than scarlet. Do you suppose I worked my way up from axeman to engineer, and didn’t learn anything about flags?”

“But it is all really too absurd! I do not know the first thing about sewing, and I have neither thread nor needle.”

“It’s up to you, though, if you want to help. My sisters sewed mighty soon after they learned to toddle. ’Bout time you learned– There, now; I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You’ve made a fair stagger at cooking, and I bet you win out on the dressmaking. For needle you can use one of these long slim thorns–poke a hole, and then slip the thread through, like a shoemaker.”

“Ah, yes; but the thread?” put in Winthrope.

“The cocoanut fibre would hardly do,” said Miss Leslie, forgetting to dry her eyes.

“No. We could get fairly good fibres out of the palm leaves; but catgut will be a whole lot better. I’ll slit up a lot for you, fine enough to sew with. And now, let’s get down to tacks. No offence–but did either of you ever learn to do anything useful in all your blessed little lives?”

“Why, Mr. Blake, of course I–”

“Of course what?” demanded Blake, as Miss Leslie hesitated. “We know all about your cooking and sewing. What else?”

“I–I see what you meant. I fear that nothing of what I learned would be of service now.”

“Boarding-school rot, eh? And you, Winthrope?”

“If you would kindly name over what you have in mind.”

“Um!” grunted Blake. “Well, it’s first of all a question of a practical–practical, mind you,–knowledge of metallurgy, ceramics, and how to stick an arrow through a beef roast.”

“I–ah–I believe I intimated that I have some knowledge of archery. But I doubt–”

“Cut it out! You’ll have enough else to do. Get busy over those bows and arrows, and don’t quit till you’ve got them in shape. Leave my bow good and stiff. I can pull like a mule can kick. Well, Miss Jenny; what is it?”

“Is not–has not ceramics something to do with burning china?”

“Sure!–china, pottery, and all that. Know anything about it?”

“Why, I have a friend who amuses herself by painting china, and I know it has to be burned.”

“And that’s all!” grunted Blake. “Well, let me tell you. When I was a little kid I used to work in a pottery. All I can remember is that they’d take clay, shape it into a pot, dry it, and bake the thing in a kiln. We’ve got to work the same game somehow. This kind of eating will mean dysentery in short order. So there’s going to be a bean-pot for our stews, or Tom Blake’ll know the reason why. Nurse up that ankle of yours, Win. We’ll trek it to-morrow–cocoanuts, and maybe something else. There’s clay on the far bank of the river, and across from it I saw a streak that looked like brown hæmatite.”

CHAPTER XII
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

The next four days slipped by almost unheeded. Blake saw to it that not only himself but his companions had work to occupy every hour of daylight. When not engaged in cooking and fuel gathering, Miss Leslie was learning by painful experience the rudiments of dressmaking.

At the start she had all but ruined the beautiful skin of the mother leopard before Blake chanced to see her and took over the task of cutting it into shape for a skirt. But when it came to making a waist of the cub fur, he said that she would have to puzzle out the pattern from her other one. Between cooking three meals a day over an open fire, gathering several armfuls of wood, and making a dress with penknife, thorn, and catgut, the girl had little time to think of other matters than her work.

Winthrope had been gazetted as hunter in ordinary. His task was to keep Miss Leslie supplied with fresh eggs and each day to kill as many of the boobies and cormorants as he could skin and split for drying. Blake had changed his mind about taking him when he went for cocoanuts. Instead, he had gone alone on several trips, bringing three or four loads of nuts, then a little salt from the seashore, dirty but very welcome, and last of all a great lump of clay, wrapped in palm fronds.

With this clay he at once began experiments in the art of pottery. Having mixed and beaten a small quantity, he moulded it into little cups and bowls, and tried burning them over night in the watch-fire. A few came out without crack or flaw. Vastly elated by this success, he fashioned larger vessels from his clay, and within the week could brag of two pots suitable for cooking stews, and four large nondescript pieces which he called plates. What was more, all had a fairly good sand glaze, for he had been quick to observe a glaze on the bottoms of the first pots, and had reasoned out that it was due to the sand which had adhered while they stood drying in the sun.

He next turned his attention to metallurgy. The first move was to search the river bank for the brown bog iron ore which he believed he had seen from the farther side. After a dangerous and exhausting day’s work in the mire and jungle, he came back with nothing more to show for his pains than an armful of creepers. Late in the afternoon, he had located the hæmatite, only to find it lying in a streak so thin that he could not hope to collect enough for practical purposes.

“Lucky we’ve got something to fall back on,” he added, after telling of his failure. “Pass over those keys of yours, Win. Good! Now untangle those creepers. To-night we’ll take turns knotting them up into some sort of a rope-ladder. I’m getting mighty weary of hoofing it all around the point every time I trot to the river. After this I’ll go down the cliff at that end of the gully.”

Winthrope, who had become very irritable and depressed during the last two days, turned on his heel, with the look of a fretful child.

To cover this undiplomatic rudeness, Miss Leslie spoke somewhat hurriedly. “But why should you return again to the river, Mr. Blake? I’m sure you are risking the fever; and there must be savage beasts in the jungle.”

“That’s my business,” growled Blake. He paused a moment, and added, rather less ungraciously, “Well, if you care, it’s this way–I’m going to keep on looking for ore. Give me a little iron ore, and we’ll mighty soon have a lot of steel knives and arrow-heads that’ll amount to something. How’re we going to bag anything worth while with bamboo tips on our arrows? Those boar tusks are a fizzle.”

“So you will continue to risk your life for us? I think that is very brave and generous, Mr. Blake!”

“How’s that?” demanded Blake, not a little puzzled. He was fully conscious of the risk; but this was the first intimation he had received or conceived that his motives were other than selfish–“Um-m! So that’s the ticket. Getting generous, eh?”

“Not getting–you are generous! When I think of all you have done for us! Had it not been for you, I am sure we should have died that first day ashore.”

“Well, don’t blame me. I couldn’t have let a dog die that way; and then, a fellow needs a Man Friday for this sort of thing. As for you, I haven’t always had the luck to be favored with ladies’ company.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blake. I quite appreciate the compliment. But now, I must put on supper.”

Blake followed her graceful movements with an intentness which, in turn, drew Winthrope’s attention to himself. The Englishman smiled in a disagreeable manner, and resumed his work on the bows, with the look of one mentally preoccupied. After supper he found occasion to spend some little time among the bamboos.

When at sunset Miss Leslie withdrew into the baobab, Winthrope somewhat officiously insisted upon helping her set up her screen in the entrance. As he did so, he took the opportunity to hand her a bamboo knife, and to draw her attention to several double-pointed bamboo stakes which he had hidden under the litter.

“What is it?” she asked, troubled by his furtive glance back at Blake.

“Merely precaution, you know,” he whispered. “The ground in there is quite soft. It will be no trouble, I fancy, to put up the stakes, with their points inclined towards the entrance.”

“But why–”

“Not so loud, Miss Genevieve! It struck me that if any one should seek to enter in the night, he would find these stakes deucedly unpleasant. Be careful how you handle them. As you see, the sharper points, which are to be set uppermost, run off into a razor edge. Put them up now, before it grows too dark. You know how ninepins are set–that shape. Good-night! You see, with these to guard the entrance, you need not be afraid to go to sleep at once.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and began to thrust the stakes into the ground as he had directed.

He had not been mistaken. The vague doubts and fears which she already entertained would have kept her awake throughout the night, but thanks to the sense of security afforded by the sword-bayonets of her silent little sentries, the girl was soon able to calm herself, and was fast asleep long before Blake wakened Winthrope.

Immediately after breakfast, Blake–who had spent his watch in grinding the edges from a stone and experimenting with split and bent twigs–put Winthrope’s keys in the fire, and began an attempt to shape them into a knife-blade. To heat the steel to the required temperature, he used a bamboo blowpipe, with his lungs for bellows.

Winthrope turned away with an indifferent bearing; but Miss Leslie found herself compelled to stop and admire his dexterous use of his rude tools.

One after another, the keys were welded together, end to end, in a narrow ribbon of steel. The thinnest one, however, was not fastened to the tip until it had been used to burn a groove in the edge of a rib, selected from among the bones which Miss Leslie had thrown out of the baobab. The last key was then fastened to the others; the blade ground sharp, tempered, and inserted in the groove. Finally, pieces of the key-ring were fitted in bands around the bone, through notches cut in the ends of the steel blade. The result was a bone-handled, bone-backed knife, with a narrow cutting edge of fine steel.

Long before it was finished Miss Leslie had been forced away by the requirements of her own work. In fact, Blake did not complete his task until late in the afternoon. At the end, he spent more than an hour grinding the handle into shape. When he came to show the completed knife to Miss Leslie, he was fairly aglow with justifiable pride.

“How’s that for an Eskimo job?” he demanded. “Bunch of keys and a bone, eh?”

“You are certainly very ingenious, Mr. Blake!”

“Nixy! There’s little of the inventor in my top piece–only some hustle and a good memory. I was up in Alaska, you know. Saw a sight of Eskimo work.”

“Still, it is very skilfully done.”

“That may be–Look out for the edge! It’d do to shave. No more bamboo splinters for me–dull when you hit a piece of bone. I’m ready now to skin a rhinoceros.”

“If you can catch one!”

“Guess we could find enough of them around here, all right. But we’ll start in on some of Win’s sheep and cattle.”

“Oh, do! One grows tired of eggs, and all these sea-birds are so tough and fishy, no matter how I cook them.”

“We’ll sneak down to the pool, and make a try with the bows this evening. I’ll give odds, though, that we draw a blank. Win’s got the aim, but no drive; I’ve got the drive, but no aim. Even if I hit an antelope, I don’t think a bamboo-pointed arrow would bother him much.”

“Don’t the savages kill game without iron weapons?”

“Sure; but a lot have flint points, and a lot of others use poison. I know that the Apaches and some of those other Southern Indians used to fix their arrows with rattlesnake poison.”

“How horrible!”

“Well, that depends on how you look at it. I guess they thought guns more horrible when they tackled the whites and got the daylight let through ’em. At any rate, they swapped arrows for rifles mighty quick, and any one who knows Apaches will tell you it wasn’t because they thought bullets would do less damage.”

“Yet the thought of poison–”

“Yes; but the thought of self-preservation! Sooner than starve, I’d poison every animal in Africa–and so would you.”

“I–I–You put it in such a horrible way. One must consider others, animals as well as people; and yet–”

“Survival of the fittest. I’ve read some things, and I’m no fool, if I do say it myself. For instance, I’m the boss here, because I’m the fittest of our crowd in this environment; but back in what’s called civilized parts, where the law lets a few shrewd fellows monopolize the means of production, a man like your father–”

“Mr. Blake, it is not my fault if papa’s position in the business world–”

“Nor his, either–it’s the cussed system! No; that’s all right, Miss Jenny. I was only illustrating. Now, I take it, both you and Win would like to get rid of a boss like me, if you could get rid of Africa at the same time. As it is, though, I guess you’d rather have me for boss, and live, than be left all by your lonesomes, to starve.”

“I–I’m sure there is no question of your leadership, Mr. Blake. We have both tried our best to do what you have asked of us.”

“You have, at least. But I know. If a ship should come to-morrow, it’d be Blake to the back seat. ‘Papa, give this–er–person a check for his services, while I chase off with Winnie, to get my look-in on ’Is Ri-yal ’Igh-ness.’”

Miss Leslie flushed crimson– “I’m sure, Mr. Blake–”

“Oh, don’t let that worry you, Miss Jenny. It don’t me. I couldn’t be sore with you if I tried. Just the same, I know what it’ll be like. I’ve rubbed elbows enough with snobs and big bugs to know what kind of consideration they give one of the mahsses–unless one of the mahsses has the drop on them. Hello, Win! What’s kept you so late?”