Part 2 (1/2)

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 gla.s.sy plain in the dead calm, they did not see Blake on his return until he struck shallow water and stood up to wade ash.o.r.e. 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!-- d.a.m.nation!”

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-- h.e.l.l! 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!”