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.