MAROONED AT QUASI

It was a bright, sunny day that followed—a day offering no suggestion of the convulsion of the night before. There was a good sailing breeze blowing in from the sea. It gave Dunbar the wind over the starboard quarter for his voyage to the village, and promised to be nearly abeam for his return.

“The dory will take me there and back by noon or a little later,” he called to the others as the sails filled and the boat heeled over to port.

The Rutledge boys had urged him to take the money they offered him for the purchase of supplies, but he had declined.

“I have a plenty of my own,” was his answer, “and whatever I can buy up there I’ll bring back as my contribution to the general welfare.”

It was idle to argue the matter, and not very safe either, Dick thought, for in their intercourse with him the boys had learned that with all his kindly good-nature, Dunbar was exceedingly proud and very sensitive.

When the dory had gone, the boys set to work with a will upon the task of re-establishing Camp Quasi. Tom was sent out after game. Dick, who was the cleverest of them all in using tools, and especially his jackknife, busied himself in fitting new handles into their two shovels. With these and the bait pails for excavating tools, the three who remained in camp toiled diligently in removing the sand from their well.

Tom returned a little before noon, bringing in game enough of one kind and another to keep the company in meat for two days to come.

There was no sign of Dunbar and the dory as yet, and as the rest were hungry, it was decided that Cal should cook dinner at once, while Tom worked at the well in his stead. The cooking occupied a considerable time, and it was two o’clock in the afternoon when the tired boys finished eating. They had not slept since the earthquake at ten o’clock the night before; they had worked hard during the night in an endeavor to save what they could of their belongings, and they had worked still harder ever since dawn. Moreover, the excitement had been even more wearying than the work. Now that it had passed away and its victims had eaten a hearty dinner, the desire for rest and sleep became irresistible.

Cal had made measurements and reported that two hours more of digging, or perhaps even less than that, would give them a water supply once more. At Larry’s suggestion, therefore, the worn-out fellows decided to sleep for an hour or two.

“We’ll do the rest of the well-digging in the cool of the late afternoon,” he said between a succession of yawns.

“Let’s hope,” said Tom, “that Mr. Dunbar won’t get here and wake us up before we’re ready.”

“There’s not much danger of that,” answered Cal.

“Why not, Cal?”

“You’d know without asking if you were as observant to-day as you usually are. I suppose you didn’t notice that the wind died out before noon, and there hasn’t been a sailing breath since.”

“That’s so,” said Tom, “and he’ll have to row the whole way. I ought to have thought of that.”

“Well, please don’t apologize now. It would only keep us awake when every moment is precious for slumber. I give notice now that I’m asleep and you can’t pull another word out of me with a corkscrew.”

When the weary fellows waked the afternoon was nearly gone, but before resuming their work, and by way of refreshing themselves for it, they went down to the beach and took a plunge into the sea.

“No sign of Mr. Dunbar yet,” said Tom, who was beginning to be uneasy.

“No,” answered Larry, “but we needn’t bother about him. He’ll turn up quite unexpectedly when he gets ready. He always does that you know. What we’ve got to do is to finish our well in the shortest possible time. So, on with your duds, and let’s get to work.”

“You’re ‘mighty right,’ Larry,” said Dick. “I’ve quenched my thirst with sour wild grapes till my teeth have an edge like those of a buck-saw, and I begin to crave some unseasoned water.”

“I imagine we’re all in the same condition,” said Cal, as they hurried back to the ruins of the camp, “and it is altogether well that we are so.”

“How’s that, Cal?”

“Why, stimulated by thirst and encouraged by a sure prospect of reward, we’ll stop fooling away our time and do a little real work.”

Two hours later there was an abundant water supply in the well, and it had so far “settled” that the boys drank it freely with their late supper.

When the meal was over they all strolled down to the shore again and listened for the sound of oars in the direction from which Dunbar was expected. Nobody had suggested this. No word of uneasiness had been uttered, but every member of the company was in fact uneasy about the missing member of the group. After their return to camp this feeling was recognized as something in the minds of all. Presently Tom offered a suggestion:

“What do you think, Larry? Won’t it be just as well to show a light down that way, in case he should have trouble in finding the landing during the night?”

“That’s a good idea, Tom, but we’re so nearly out of oil now—indeed, we haven’t any except what is in the lanterns—that it must be a torch—”

“Or a camp-fire,” suggested Cal. “There are no sand flies to-night, and there’s nothing to keep us here. Why not move down to the bluffs and build a camp-fire there? Then we can sleep by it and keep it going all night.”

This plan was carried out, but it resulted in nothing. When the boys returned to their work of rebuilding the shelter the next morning, Dunbar had not yet made his appearance, nor was anything to be seen of the dory in such of the waterways as were open to view between the mud marshes that dotted the great bay or inlet in every direction.

But as the boys busied themselves with their work on the hut, their minds were occupied and their anxiety as to Dunbar was less than during the night before.

When another day had passed, however, and still Dunbar did not return, that anxiety became very keen indeed. They built their fire again on the bluff, and they tried hard to sleep by it, but with little success. They would resolve to stop talking and go to sleep, and for a few minutes all would be quiet. Then one after another would grow restless and sit up, or walk about, or say something that set the talk going again.

Presently, when all had given up the attempt to sleep, Larry made a final end of all efforts in that direction by saying:

“You see, boys, this thing is really very serious. We are all anxious about Mr. Dunbar’s safety, but we’ve got our own to think about also.”

Every one of the company had thought of that, but until now all of them had avoided mentioning it.

“You see it isn’t Mr. Dunbar alone that is missing; the dory is gone too, and if he doesn’t return the dory won’t.”

“No, and in that case,” commented Dick, “our situation will be really very serious. We are here on what is practically an island that nobody ever visits; we are without a boat, and there is no possible way of escape from here without one.”

“Can’t we build some sort of craft that will answer our purpose?” asked Tom, hopefully.

“What with?” Larry responded. “We have no materials and no tools except the one little ax. There isn’t so much as a nail anywhere on Quasi plantation, and if there were kegs full, we haven’t a hammer to hit them with.”

“We might drive nails with stones,” suggested Dick.

“We might if we had one of your Massachusetts quarries to furnish the stones. But on all this coast there isn’t a rock or a stone as big as a filbert. No, we have no tools and no substitutes for tools.”

“Yes,” growled Cal, who alone was lying down with closed eyes in an endeavor to get to sleep, “and you fellows are doing all you can to wear out the strength we need for the emergency by profitless chatter, when we ought to be sleeping and refreshing ourselves to meet conditions as they arise. Don’t you see the folly of that? Don’t you realize that you aren’t bettering things, but making them worse?

“The very worst preparation for meeting difficulties is to fall into a panic about them. Besides, there’s no occasion for panic or for melancholy brooding; Dunbar may turn up with the dory safe and sound. If he doesn’t, I grant you we’ll have some problems to wrestle with and we’ll need the clearest heads we can keep on our shoulders. You’re doing all you can to muddle them.”

“But, Cal, it is necessary to face this situation and think of ways in which—”

“That’s precisely what you’re not doing. Not one of you has offered a single suggestion that is worth while. Besides, this isn’t the time for that. Troubles always look worse at night than by daylight. The best we can do now is to make up our minds to two things.”

“What are they, Cal?”

“First, that if we’re in a hole, we’ll find some way of getting out of it, and, second, that it is high time to go to sleep.”

“Have you thought of any plans, Cal?”

“Not exactly; but I have some ideas that may be worthy of attention on the part of this distinguished company, if this distinguished company will individually and collectively stop gabbing and let sleep respond to the wooing of closed eyelids. Silence in camp!”