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.”