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
