Into the Primitive

CHAPTER XXI
WRECKAGE AND SALVAGE

Catching sight of a bit of white down among the bamboos, she went to it, and was not a little surprised to see the tattered remnant of her duck skirt. It had evidently been torn from the signal staff by the first gust of the cyclone, whirled down into the cleft by some flaw or eddy in the wind, and wadded so tightly into the heart of the thick clump of stems that all the fury of the storm had failed to dislodge it. Its recovery seemed to the girl a special providence; for of course they must keep up a signal on the cliff.

Having started her fire and set on a stew, she hunted out her sewing materials from their crevice in the cave, and began mending the slits in the torn flag. While she worked she sat on a shaded ledge, her bare feet toasting in the sun, and her soggy, mud-smeared moccasins drying within reach. When Blake appeared, the moccasins were still where she had first set them; but the little pink feet were safely tucked up beneath the tattered flag. Fortunately, the sight of the white cloth prevented Blake from noticing the moccasins.

“Hello!” he exclaimed. “What’s that?–the flag? Say, that’s luck! I’ll break out a bamboo right off. Old staff’s carried clean away.”

“Mr. Blake,–just a moment, please. What have you done with–with it?”

Blake jerked his thumb upward.

“You have carried him up on the cliff?”

“Best place I could think of. No animals–and I piled stones over.... But, I say, look here.”

He drew out a piece of wadded cloth, marked off into little squares by crossing lines of stitches. One of the squares near the edge had been ripped open. Blake thrust in his finger, and worked out an emerald the size of a large pea.

“O-h-h!” cried Miss Leslie, as he held the glittering gem out to her in his rough palm.

He drew it back, and carefully thrust it again into its pocket.

“That’s one,” he said. “There’s another in every square of this innocent, harmless rag–dozens of them. He must have made a clean sweep of the duke’s–or, more like, the duchess’s jewels. Now, if you please, I want you to sew this up tight again, and–”

“I cannot–I cannot touch it!” she cried.

“Say, I didn’t mean to– It was confounded stupid of me,” mumbled Blake. “Won’t you excuse me?”

“Of course! It was only the–the thought that–”

“No wonder. I always am a fool when it comes to ladies. I’ll fix the thing all right.”

Catching up the nearest small pot, he crammed the quilted cloth down within it, and filled it to the brim with sticky mud.

“There! Guess nobody’s going to run off with a jug of mud–and it won’t hurt the stones till we get a chance to look up the owner. He won’t be hard to find–English duke minus a pint of first-class sparklers! Will you mind its setting in the cave after things are fixed up?”

“No; not as it is.”

He nodded soberly. “All right, then. Now I’ll go for the new flag-staff. You might set out breakfast.”

She nodded in turn, and when he came back from the bamboos with the largest of the great canes on his shoulder, his breakfast was waiting for him. She set it before him, and turned to go again to her sewing.

“Hold on,” he said. “This won’t do. You’ve got to eat your share.”

“I do not–I am not hungry.”

“That’s no matter. Here!”

He forced upon her a bowl of hot broth, and she drank it because she could not resist his rough kindness.

“Good! Now a piece of meat,” he said.

“Please, Mr. Blake!” she protested.

“Yes, you must!”

She took a bite, and sought to eat; but there was such a lump in her throat that she could not swallow. The tears gushed into her eyes, and she began to weep.

Blake’s close-set lips relaxed, and he nodded.

“That’s it; let it run out. You’re overwrought. There’s nothing like a good cry to ease off a woman’s nerves–and I guess ladies aren’t much different from women when it comes to such things.”

“But I–I want to get the flag mended!” she sobbed.

“All right, all right; plenty of time!” he soothed. “I’m going to see how things look down the cleft.”

He bolted the last of his meat, and at once left her alone to cry herself back to calmness over the stitching of the signal.

His first concern was for the barricade. As he had feared, he found that it had been blown to pieces. The greater part of the thorn branches which he had gathered with so much labor were scattered to the four corners of the earth. He stood staring at the wreckage in glum silence; but he did not swear, as he would have done the week before. Presently his face cleared, and he began to whistle in a plaintive minor key. He was thinking of how she had looked when she darted out of the tree at his call–of her concern for him. When he was so angered at Winthrope, she had called him Tom!

After a time he started on, picking his way over the remnant of the barricade, without a falter in his whistling. The deluge of rain had poured down the cleft in a torrent, tearing away the root-matted soil and laying bare the ledges in the channel of the spring rill. But aside from an occasional boggy hole, the water had drained away.

At the foot, about the swollen pool, was a wide stretch of rubbish and mud. He worked his way around the edge, and came out on the plain, where the sandy soil was all the firmer for its drenching. He swung away at a lively clip. The air was fresh and pure after the storm, and a slight breeze tempered the sun-rays.

He kept on along the cliff until he turned the point. It was not altogether advisable to bathe at this time of day; but he had been caught out by the cyclone in a corner of the swamp, across the river, where the soil was of clay. Only his anxiety for Miss Leslie had enabled him to fight his way out of the all but impassable morass which the storm deluge had made of the half-dry swamp. At dawn he had reached the river, and swam across, reckless of the crocodiles. The turbid water of the stream had rid him of only part of his accumulated slime and ooze. So now he washed out his tattered garments as well as he could without soap, and while they were drying on the sun-scorched rocks, swam about in the clear, tonic sea-water, quite as reckless of the sharks as he had been of the ugly crocodiles in the river.

For all this, he was back at the baobab before Miss Leslie had stitched up the last slit in the torn flag.

She looked up at him, with a brave attempt at a smile.

“I am afraid I’m not much of a needle-woman,” she sighed. “Look at those stitches!”

“Don’t fret. They’ll hold all right, and that’s what we want,” he reassured her. “Give it me, now. I’ve got to get it up, and hurry back for a nap. No sleep last night–I was out beyond the river, in the swamp–and to-night I’ll have to go on watch. The barricade is down.”

“Oh, that is too bad! Couldn’t I take a turn on watch?”

Blake shook his head. “No; I’ll sleep to-day, and work rebuilding the barricade to-night. Toward morning I might build up the fire, and take a nap.”

He caught up the flag and its new staff, and swung away through the cleft.

He returned much sooner than Miss Leslie expected, and at once began to throw up a small lean-to of bamboos over a ledge at the cliff foot, behind the baobab. The girl thought he was making himself a hut, in place of the canopy under which he had slept before the storm, which, like Winthrope’s, had been carried away. But when he stopped work, he laconically informed her that all she had to do to complete her new house was to dry some leaves.

“But I thought it was for yourself!” she protested. “I will sleep inside the tree.”

“Doc Blake says no!” he rejoined–“not till it’s dried out.”

She glanced at his face, and replied, without a moment’s hesitancy: “Very well. I will do what you think best.”

“That’s good,” he said, and went at once to lie down for his much needed sleep.

He awoke just soon enough before dark to see the results of her hard day’s labor. All the provisions stored in the tree had been brought out to dry, and a great stack of fuel, ready for burning, was piled up against the baobab; while all about the tree the rubbish had been neatly gathered together in heaps. Blake looked his admiration for her industry. But then his forehead wrinkled.

“You oughtn’t to’ve done so much,” he admonished.

“I’ll show you I can tote fair!” she rejoined. During the afternoon she had called to mind that odd expression of a Southern girl chum, and had been waiting her opportunity to banter him with it.

He stared at her open-eyed, and laughed.

“Say, Miss Jenny, you’d better look out. You’ll be speaking American, first thing!”

Thereupon, they fell to chattering like children out of school, each happy to be able to forget for the moment that broken figure up on the cliff top and the haunting fear of what another day might bring to them.

When they had eaten their meal, both with keen appetites, Blake sprang up, with a curt “Good-night!” and swung off down the cleft. The girl looked after him, with a lingering smile.

“I wish he hadn’t rushed off so suddenly,” she murmured. “I was just going to thank him for–for everything!”

The color swept over her face in a deep blush, and she darted around to her tiny hut as though some one might have overheard her whisper.

Yet, after all, she had said nothing; or, at least, she had merely said “everything.”

CHAPTER XXII
UNDERSTANDING AND MISUNDERSTANDING

“Yes. Didn’t you hear him? The skulking brute prowled around for hours before the moon rose, when it was pitch dark. It was mighty lonesome, with him yowling down by the pool. Half a chance, and I’d given him something to yowl about. But it wasn’t any use firing off my arrows in the dark, and, as I said, he sneaked off before–”

“Tom–Mr. Blake!–you must not risk your life!”

“Don’t you worry about me. I’ve learned how to look out for Tom Blake. And you can just bank on it I’m going to look out for Miss Jenny Leslie, too! . . . . But say, after breakfast, suppose we take a run out on the cliffs for eggs?”

“I do not wish any to-day, thank you.”

He waited a little, studying her down-bent face.

“Well,” he muttered; “you don’t have to come. I know I oughtn’t to take a moment’s time. I did quite a bit last night; but if you think–”

She glanced up, puzzled. His meaning flashed upon her, and she rose.

“Oh, not that! I will come,” she answered, and hastened to prepare the morning meal.

When they came to the tree-ladder, she found that the heap of stones built up by Blake to facilitate the first part of the ascent was now so high that she could climb into the branches without difficulty. She surmised that Blake had found it necessary to build up the pile before he could ascend with his burden.

They were at the foot of the heap, when, with a sharp exclamation, Blake sprang up into the branches, and scrambled to the top in hot haste. Wondering what this might mean, Miss Leslie followed as fast as she could. When she reached the top, she saw him running across towards an out-jutting point on the north edge of the cliff.

She had hurried after him for more than half the distance before she perceived the vultures that were gathered in a solemn circle about a long and narrow heap of stones, on a ledge, down on the sloping brink of the cliff. While at the foot of the tree Blake had seen one of the grewsome flock descending to join the others, and, fearful of what might be happening, had rushed on ahead.

At his approach, the croaking watchers hopped awkwardly from the ledges, and soared away; only to wheel, and circle back overhead. Miss Leslie shrank down, shuddering. Blake came back near her, and began to gather up the pieces of loose rock which were strewn about beneath the ledges on that part of the cliff.

“I know I piled up enough,” he explained, in response to her look. “All the same, a few more will do no harm.”

“Then you are sure those awful birds have not–”

“Yes; I’m sure.”

He carried an armful of rocks to lay on the mound. When he began to gather more, she followed his example. They worked in silence, piling the rough stones gently one upon another, until the cairn had grown to twice its former size. The air on the open cliff top was fresher than in the cleft, and Miss Leslie gave little heed to the absence of shade. She would have worked on under the burning sun without thought of consequences. But Blake knew the need of moderation.

“There; that’ll do,” he said. “He may have been–all he was; but we’ve no more than done our duty. Now, we’ll stroll out on the point.”

“I should prefer to return.”

“No doubt. But it’s time you learned how to go nesting. What if you should be left alone here? Besides, it looks to me like the signal is tearing loose.”

She accompanied him out along the cliff crest until they stood in the midst of the bird colony, half deafened by their harsh clamor. She had never ventured into their concourse when alone. Even now she cried out, and would have retreated before the sharp bills and beating wings had not Blake walked ahead and kicked the squawking birds out of the path. Having made certain that the big white flag was still secure on its staff, he led the way along the seaward brink of the cliff, pointing out the different kinds of seafowl, and shouting information about such of their habits and qualities as were of concern to hungry castaways.

He concluded the lesson by descending a dizzy flight of ledges to rob the nest of a frigate bird. It was a foolhardy feat at best, and doubly so in view of the thousands of eggs lying all around in the hollows of the cliff top. But from these Blake had recently culled out all the fresh settings of the frigate birds, and none of the other eggs equalled them in delicacy of flavor.

“How’s that?” he demanded, as he drew himself up over the edge of the cliff, and handed the big chalky-white egg into her keeping.

“I would rather go without than see you take such risks,” she replied coldly.

“You would, eh!” he cried, quite misunderstanding her, and angered by what seemed to him a gratuitous rebuff. “Well, I’d rather you’d say nothing than speak in that tone. If you don’t want the egg heave it over.”

Unable to conceive any cause for his sudden anger, she was alarmed, and drew back, watching him with sidelong glances.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Think I’m going to bite you?”

She shrank farther away, and did not answer. He stared at her, his eyes hard and bright. Suddenly he burst into a harsh laugh, and strode away towards the cliff, savagely kicking aside the birds that came in his path.

When, an hour later, the girl crept back along the cleft to the baobab, she saw him hard at work building a little hut, several yards down towards the barricade. The moment she perceived what he was about her bearing became less guarded, and she took up her own work with a spirit and energy which she had not shown since the adventure with the puff adder.

At her call to the noon meal, Blake took his time to respond, and when he at last came to join her, he was morose and taciturn. She met him with a smile, and exerted all her womanly tact to conciliate him.

“You must help me eat the egg,” she said. “I’ve boiled it hard.”

“Rather eat beef,” he mumbled.

“But just to please me–when I’ve cooked it your way!”

He uttered an inarticulate sound which she chose to interpret as assent. The egg was already shelled. She cut it exactly in half, and served one of the pieces to him with a bit of warm fat and a pinch of salt. As he took the dish, he raised his sullen eyes to her face. She met his gaze with a look of smiling insistence.

“Come now,” she said; “please don’t refuse. I’m sorry I was so rude.”

“Well, if you feel that way about it!–not that I care for fancy dishes,” he responded gruffly.

“It would be missing half the enjoyment to eat such a delicacy without some one to share it,” she said.

Blake looked away without answer. But she could see that his face was beginning to clear. Greatly encouraged, she chatted away as though they were seated at her father’s dinner-table, and he was an elderly friend from the business world whom it was her duty to entertain.

For a while Blake betrayed little interest, confining himself to monosyllables except when he commented on the care with which she had cooked the various dishes. When she least expected, he looked up at her, his lips parted in a broad smile. She stopped short, for she had been describing her first social triumphs, and his untimely levity embarrassed her.

“Don’t get mad, Miss Jenny,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “You don’t know how funny it seems to sit here and listen to you talking about those things. It’s like serving up ice cream and onions in the same dish.”

“I’m sure, Mr. Blake–”

“Beats a burlesque all hollow–Mrs. Sint-Regis-Waldoff’s chop-sooey tea and young Mrs. Vandam-Jones’s auto-cotillon–with us sitting here like troglodytes, chewing snake-poisoned antelope, and you in that Kundry dress–”

“Do you–I was not aware that you knew about music.”

“Don’t know a note. But give me a chance to hear good music, and I’m there, if I have to stand in the peanut gallery.”

“Oh, I’m so glad! I’m very, very fond of music! Have you been to Bayreuth?”

“Where’s that?”

“In Germany. It is where his operas are given as staged by Wagner himself. It is indescribably grand and inspiring–above all, the Parsifal!”

“I’ll most certainly take that in, even if I have to cut short my engagement in this gee-lorious clime–not but what, when it comes to leopard ladies–” He paused, and surveyed her with frank admiration.

The blood leaped into her face.

“Oh!” she gasped, “I never dreamed that even such a man as you would compare me with–with a creature like that!”

“Such a man as me!” repeated Blake, staring. “What do you mean? I know I’m not much of a ladies’ man; but to be yanked up like this when a fellow is trying to pay a compliment–well, it’s not just what you’d call pleasant.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake. I misunderstood. I–”

“That’s all right, Miss Jenny! I don’t ask any lady to beg my pardon. The only thing is I don’t see why you should flare out at me that way.”

For a full minute she sat, with down-bent head, her face clouded with doubt and indecision. At last she bravely raised her eyes to meet his.

“Do you wonder that I am not quite myself?” she asked. “You should remember that I have always had the utmost comforts of life, and have been cared for– Don’t you see how terrible it is for me? And then the death of–of–”

“I can’t be sorry for that!”

“But even you felt how terrible it was . . . . and then–Oh, surely, you must see how–how embarrassing–”

It was Blake’s turn to look down and hesitate. She studied his face, her bosom heaving with quick-drawn breath; but she could make nothing of his square jaw and firm-set lips. His eyes were concealed by the brim of his leaf hat. When he spoke, seemingly it was to change the subject: “Guess you saw me making my hut. I’m fixing it so it’ll do me even when it rains.”

Had he been the kind of man that she had been educated to consider as alone entitled to the name of gentleman, she could have felt certain that he had intended the remark for a delicately worded assurance. But was Tom Blake, for all his blunt kindliness, capable of such tact? She chose to consider that he was.

“It’s a cunning little bungalow. But will not the rain flood you out?”

“It’s going to have a raised floor. You’re more like to have the rain drive in on you again. I’ll have to rig up a porch over your door. It won’t do to stuff up the hole. You’ve little enough air as it is. But that can wait a while. There’s other work more pressing. First, there’s the barricade. By the time that’s done, those hyena skins will be cured enough to use. I’ve got to have new trousers soon, and new shoes, too.”

“I can do the sewing, if you will cut out the pattern.”

“No; I’ll take a stagger at it myself first. I’d rather you’d go egging. You need to run around more, to keep in trim.”

“I feel quite well now, and I am growing so strong! The only thing is this constant heat.”

“We’ll have to grin and bear it. After all, it’s not so bad, if only we can stave off the fever. Another reason I want you to go for eggs is that you can take your time about it, and keep a look-out for steamers.”

“Then you think –?”

“Don’t screw up your hopes too high. We’ve little show of being picked up by a chance boat on a coast with reefs like this. But I figure that if I was in your daddy’s shoes, it’d be high time for me to be cabling a ship to run up from Natal, or down from Zanzibar, to look around for jettison, et cetera.”

“I’m sure papa will offer a big reward.”

“Second the motion! I’ve a sort of idea I wouldn’t mind coming in for a reward myself.”

“You? Oh, yes; to be sure. Papa is generous, and he will be grateful to any one who–”

“You think I mean his dirty money!” broke in Blake, hotly.

Her confusion told him that he had not been mistaken. His face, only a moment since bright and pleasant, took on its sullenest frown.

Miss Leslie rose hurriedly, and started along the cleft.

“Hello!” he called. “Not going for eggs now, are you?”

She did not reply.

“Hang it all, Miss Jenny! Don’t go off like that.”

“May I ask you to excuse me, Mr. Blake? Is that sufficient?”

“Sufficient? It’s enough to give a fellow a chill! Come now; don’t go off mad. You know I’ve a quick temper. Can’t you make allowances?”

“You’ve–you’ve no right to look so angry, even if I did misunderstand you. You misunderstood me!” She caught herself up with a half sob. His silence gave her time to recover her composure. She continued with excessive politeness, “Need I repeat my request to be excused, Mr. Blake?”

“No; once is enough! But honest now, I didn’t mean to be nasty.”

“Good-day, Mr. Blake.”

“Oh, da-darn it, good-day!” he groaned.

When, a few minutes later, she returned, he was gone. He did not come back until some time after dark, when she had withdrawn to her lean-to for the night. His hands were bleeding from thorn scratches; but after a hasty supper, he went back down the cleft to build up the new wall of the barricade with the great stack of fresh thorn-brush that he had gathered during the afternoon.

CHAPTER XXIII
THE END OF THE WORLD

Yet for all his enjoyment of the girl’s wide knowledge of everything relating to music, Blake took care that their talks and discussions did not interfere with the activities of their primitive mode of life. As soon as he had finished with the barricade, he devoted himself to his tailoring and shoe-making; while Miss Leslie, between her cooking and wood-gathering and daily visits to the cliff for eggs, had much to occupy both her thoughts and her hands.

At first every ascent of the cliff was embittered by a painful consciousness of the cairn upon the north edge. Fortunately it was not in sight from the direct path to the headland, and, as she refrained from visiting it, the new happenings of her wild life soon thrust Winthrope and his death out of the foreground of her thoughts. Each day she had to nerve herself to meet the beaks and wings of the despoiled nest-owners; each day she looked with greater hope for the expected rescue ship, only to be increasingly disappointed.

But the hours she spent on the cliff crest after gathering the day’s supply of eggs were not spent merely in watching and longing. The inconvenience of carrying the eggs in a handkerchief or in one of the heavy jars suggested a renewal of her attempt at basket-making. Memory, perseverance, and a trace of inventiveness enabled her to produce a small but serviceable hamper of split bamboo.

Encouraged by this success she gathered a quantity of tough, wiry grass, and wove a hat to take the place of the flimsy palm-leaf makeshift. The result was by no means satisfactory with regard to style, its shape being intermediate between a Mexican sombrero and a funnel; but aside from its appearance, she could not have wished for a more comfortable head-cover. Before showing it to Blake, she wove a second one for him, so that they were able to cast aside the grotesque, palm-leaf affairs at the same time.

The following morning Blake appeared in an outfit to match her leopard-skin dress. He had singed off the hair of the hide out of which he had made his moccasins, and his hyena-skin trousers quite matched the bristling stubble on his face.

“Hey, Miss Jenny!” he hailed; “what d’ you think of this for fancy needlework?”

“Splendid! You’re the very picture of an Argentine vaquero.”

“Greaser?–ugh! Let me get back to the Weary Willy pants!”

“I mean you are very picturesque.”

“That’s it, is it? Glad I’ve got something to call your leopardine gown that won’t make you huffy.”

“We can at least call our costumes serviceable, and mine has proved much cooler than I expected.”

“But our new hats beat all for that–regular sunshades. What do you say?–there’s a good breeze– Let’s take a hike.”

“Not to the river! The very thought of that dreadful snake–”

“No; just the other way. I’ve been thinking for some time that we ought to run down to that south headland, and take a squint at the coast beyond. Ten to one, it’s another stretch of swamps, but–”

“You think there is a chance we may find a town?”

“About one chance in a million, even for a native village. The slave trade wiped the niggers off this coast, and I guess those that hit out upcountry ran so hard they haven’t been able to get back yet.”

“But it has been years since the slave trade was forbidden.”

“And they don’t sell beer in Kansas–oh, no! I’ll bet the dhows still slip over from Madagascar when the moon is in the right quarter. At any rate, niggers are mighty scarce or mighty shy around here. I’ve kept a watch for smoke, and haven’t seen a suspicion of it anywhere. Maybe the swamps swing around inland and cut off this strip of coast. It looked that way to me when I made that trip along the ridge. But there’s a chance it used to be inhabited, and we may run across an abandoned village.”

“I do not see that the discovery would do us any good.”

“How about the chance of grain or bananas still growing? But that’s all a guess. We’re going because we need a change.”

She nodded, and hastened to prepare breakfast, while he packed a skin bag with food, and examined the slender tips of his arrows. As a matter of precaution, he had been keeping them in the cigarette case, where the points would be certain of a coat of the sticky poison and at the same time guarded against inflicting a chance wound. But as he was now about to set out on a journey, he fitted tips into the heads of his two straightest shafts.

The morning was still fresh when they closed the barricade behind them and descended to the pool. There was no game in sight, but Blake had no wish to hunt at the commencement of the trip. The steady southwest wind had blown the sky clear of its malarial haze, and gave promise of a day which should know nothing of sultry calm–a day on which game would be hard to stalk, but one perfectly suited for a long tramp.

Mindful of ticks, Blake headed obliquely across to the beach. Once on the smooth, hard sand, they swung along at a brisk pace, light-hearted and keen with the spirit of adventure. Never had they felt more companionable. Miss Leslie laughed and chatted and sang snatches of songs, while Blake beat time with his club, or sought to whistle grand opera–he had healed his blistered lips some time before by liberal applications of antelope tallow.

Gulls and terns circled about them, or hovered over the water, ready to swoop down upon their finny prey. Sandpipers ran along the beach within a stone’s throw, but the curlews showed their greater knowledge of mankind by keeping beyond gunshot.

Once a great flock of geese drove high overhead, their leader honking the alarm as they swept above the suspicious figures on the beach. Like the curlews, they had knowledge of mankind. But the flock of white pelicans which came sailing along in stately leisure on their immense wings floated past so low that Blake felt certain he could shoot one. He raised his bow and took aim, but refrained from shooting, at the thought that it might be a sheer waste of his precious poison.

A little later a herd of large animals appeared on the border of the grass jungle, but wheeled and dashed back into cover so quickly that Blake barely had time to make out that they were buffaloes–the first he had seen on this coast, but easily recognized by their resemblance to the Cape variety. Their flight gave him small concern; for the time being he was more interested in topography than game.

The southern headland now lay close before them, its seaward face rearing up sheer and lofty, but the approach behind running down in broken terraces. Mid-morning found the explorers at the foot of the ridge. Blake squinted up at the boulder-strewn slopes and the crannies of the broken ledges.

“Likely place for snakes, Miss Jenny,” he remarked. “Guess I’d better lead.”

Eager as she was to look over into the country beyond, the girl dropped into second place, and made no complaint about the wary slowness of her companion’s advance. She found the most difficult parts of the ascent quite easy after her training on the tree-ladder. Blake could have taken ledges and all at a run, but as he mounted each terrace, he halted to spy out the ground before him. Like Miss Leslie, he was looking for snakes, though for an exactly opposite reason. He wished to add to the contents of the cigarette case.

Greatly to his disappointment and the girl’s relief, neither snake nor sign of snake was to be seen all the way up the ridge. As they neared the crest Blake turned to offer her his hand up the last ledges, and in the instant they gained the top.

The wind, now freshening to a gale, struck the girl with such force that she would have been blown back down the ledges had not Blake clutched her wrist. Heedless alike of the painful grip which held her and of the gusts which tore at her skirt, the girl stood gazing out across the desolate swamps which stretched away to the southwest as far as the eye could see. She did not speak until Blake led her down behind the shelter of the crest ledges.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Didn’t I warn you?”

She looked away to hide the tears which sprang into her eyes.

“I can’t explain–only, it makes me feel so–so lonely!”

“Oh, come now, little woman; don’t take on so!” he urged. “It might be a lot worse, you know. We’ve gotten along pretty well, considering.”

“You have been very kind, Mr. Blake, and as you say, matters might have been worse. I do not forget how far more terrible was our situation the morning after the storm. Yet you must realize how disappointing it is to lose even the slightest hope of escape.”

“Well, I don’t know. If it wasn’t for the fever that’s bound to come with the rains, I, for one, would just as leave stick to this camp right along, providing the company don’t change.”

She turned upon him with flashing eyes, all thought of caution lost in her anger. “How dare you say such a thing? You are contemptible! I despise you!”

“My, Miss Jenny, but you are pretty when you get mad!” he exclaimed.

The answer took her completely aback. He was neither angry nor laughing at her, but met her defiant glance with candid, sober admiration. There was something more than admiration in his glowing eyes; yet she could not but see that her alarm had been baseless. His manner had never been more respectful. Suddenly she found that she could no longer meet his gaze. She looked away and stammered lamely, “You–you shouldn’t say such things, you know.”

“Why not? Hasn’t everything been running smooth the last few days? Haven’t we been good chummy comrades? Of course you’ve got the worst of the deal. I know I’m not much on fancy talk; but I like to hear it when I’ve a chance. I’ve led a lonesome sort of life since they did for my sisters– No; I’m not going to rake that up again. I’m only trying to give you an idea what it means to a fellow to be with a lady like you. May be it isn’t polite to tell you all this, but it’s just what I feel, and I never did amount to shucks as a liar.”

“I believe I understand you, Mr. Blake, and I really feel highly complimented.”

“No, you don’t, any such thing, Miss Jenny. Own up, now! If I met you to-morrow on your papa’s doorstep, you’d cut me cold.”

“I should if you continued to be so rude. Have you no regard for my feelings? But here we are, talking nonsense, when we should be going–”

“Is it nonsense?” he broke in. “What does life mean, anyway? Here we can be true friends and comrades,–real, free living people. It can’t be that you want to go back to all those society shams, after you’ve seen real life! As for me, what have I to gain by going back to the everlasting grind? I don’t mind work; but when a man has nothing ahead to work for but a bank account, when it’s grind, grind, grind till your head goes stale and all the world looks black, then there’s no choice but throw up your job and go on a drunk, if you want to keep from a gun accident. Maybe you don’t understand it. But that’s what I’ve had to go through, time and again. Do you wonder I like to fancy an everlasting picnic here, with a little partner who wouldn’t let me come within shouting distance of her in the land of lavender–trousers and peek-a-boos?”

“Mr. Blake, really you are most unjust! I could not be so–so ungrateful, after all your kindness. I–we should certainly be glad to number you among our friends.”

“Drink and all, eh?”

“A man of your will-power has no need whatever to give way to such a habit.”

“Course not, if he’s got anything in sight worth while. Guess, though, my folks must have been poor white trash. I never could go after money just for the fun of the game. No family, no friends, no–what-you -call-it?–culture– What’s the use? I have a fair head for figures; but all the mathematics that I know I’ve had to catch hot off the bat. It’s true I grubbed my C. E. out of a correspondence school; but a fellow has to have an all-round, crack-up education to put him where it’s worth while.”

“You still have time to work up. You are not much over thirty.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven! I should have thought– What a hard life you must have had!”

“Hard work? Well, I suppose Panama did do for me some. But it wasn’t so much that. Few fellows could hit up the pace I’ve set and come out at all.”

“I do not understand.”

“Just what you might expect of a fellow in my fix–all kinds of gamble and drink and–the rest of it.”

Miss Leslie looked away, visibly distressed. She had not been reared after the French method. Young as she was, she had fluttered at will about the borders of the garden of vice, knowing well that the gaudy blossoms were lures to entice one into the pitfall. Yet never before had she caught so clear a glimpse of the slimy depths.

“That’s it!” growled Blake. “Throw me down cold, just because I’m square enough to tell you straight out. You make me tired! I’m not one of the work-ox sort, that can chew the cud all the year round, and cork the blood out of their brains. I’ve got to cut loose from the infernal grind once in a while, and barring a chance now and then at opera, there’s never been anything but a spree–”

“Oh, but that’s so dreadfully shocking, Mr. Blake!”

“And then like all the other little hypocrites, you’ll go and marry one of those swell dudes who’s made that sort of thing his business, and everybody knows it, but it’s all politely understood to’ve been done sub rosa, so it’s all right, because he knows how to part his name in the middle and–”

“Please, please stop, Mr. Blake! You don’t know how cruel you are!”

“Cruel? Suppose I told you about the millionaire cur that– Oh, now, don’t go and cry! Please don’t cry, Miss Jenny! I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for the world! I didn’t mean anything out of the way, really I didn’t! It’s only that when I get to thinking of–of things, it sets me half crazy. And now, can’t you see how it’s going to be ten times worse for me after–with you so altogether beyond me–” He stopped short, flushed, and stammered lamely, “I–I didn’t mean to say that!”

She looked down, no less embarrassed.

“Please let us talk of something else,” she murmured. “It has been such a pleasant morning, until you–until we began this silly discussion.”

“All right, all right! Only mop up the dewdrops, and we’ll turn on the sun machine. I really didn’t mean to rip out that way at all. But, you see, the thing’s been rankling in me ever since we came aboard ship at the Cape, and Winthrope and Lady Bayrose had my seat changed so I couldn’t see you– Not that I hold anything against them now–”

“Mr. Blake, I suppose you know that this African coast is particularly dangerous for women. So far I have escaped the fever. But you yourself said that the longer the attack is delayed, the worse it will be.”

Blake’s face darkened, and he turned to stare inland along the ridge. She had flicked him on the raw, and he thought that she had done so intentionally.

“You think I haven’t tried–that I’ve been shamming!” he burst out bitterly. “You’re right. There’s the one chance– But I couldn’t leave you till the barricade was finished, and it’s been only a few days since– All the same, I oughtn’t to’ve waited a day. I’ll start it to-morrow.”

“What! Start what?”

“A catamaran. I can rig one up, in short order, that, with a skin sail and an outrigger, will do fairly well to coast along inside the reefs–barring squalls. Worst thing is that it’s all a guess whether the nearest settlement is up the coast or down.”

“And you can think of going, and leaving me all alone here!”

“That’s better than letting you risk two-to-one chances on feeding the sharks.”

“But you’d be risking it!”

Blake uttered a short harsh laugh.

“What’s the difference?” He paused a moment; then added, with grim humor, “Anyway, they’ll have earned a meal by the time they get me chewed up.”

“You sha’n’t go!”

“Oh, I don’t know. We’ll see about it to-morrow. There’s a grove of cocoanuts yonder. Come on, and I’ll get some nuts. I can’t see any water around here, and it would be dry eating, with only the flask.”

CHAPTER XXIV
A LION LEADS THEM

“It was very kind of you to climb for the nuts, and the wind blowing so hard up there,” she said, as she handed over the penknife. “I am not angry. It is only that I feel tired and depressed. I hope I am not going to be–”

“No; you’re not going to have the fever, or any such thing! You’re played out, that’s all. I’m a fool for bringing you so far. You’ll be all right after you eat and rest. Here; drink this cocoa milk.”

She drained the nut, and upon his insistence, made a pretence at eating. He was deceived until, with the satisfying of his first keen hunger, he again became observant.

“Say, that won’t do!” he exclaimed. “Look at your bowl. You haven’t nibbled enough to keep a mouse alive.”

“Really, I am not hungry. But I am resting.”

“Try another nut. I’ll have one ready in two shakes.”

He caught his hat, which was dragging past in a downward eddy of the wind, and weighted it with a cocoanut. He wedged another nut between his knees, and bent over it, tearing at the husk. It took him only a few moments to strip the fibre from the end and gouge open the germ hole. He held out the nut, and glanced up to meet her smile of acceptance.

She was staring past him, her eyes wide with terror, and the color fast receding from her face.

“What in– Another snake?” he demanded, twisting warily about to glare at the ground behind him.

“There–over in the grass!” she whispered, “It looked out at me with terrible, savage eyes!”

“Snake?–that far off?”

“No, no!–a monster–a huge, fierce beast!”

“Beast?” echoed Blake, grasping his bow and arrows. “Where is he? Maybe only one of these African buffaloes. How’d he look?–horns?”

“I–I didn’t see any. It was all shaggy, and yellow like the grass, and terrible eyes–Oh!”

The girl’s scream was met by a ferocious, snarling roar, so deep and prolonged that the air quivered and the very ground seemed to shake.

“God!–a lion!” cried Blake, the hair on his bare head bristling like a startled animal’s.

He turned squarely about toward the ridge, his bow half drawn. Had the lion shown himself then, Blake would have shot on the instant. As it was, the beast remained behind the screening border of grass, where he could watch his intended quarry without being seen in turn. The delay gave Blake time for reflection. He spoke sharply, as it were biting off his words: “Hit out. I’ll stop the bluffer.”

“I can’t. Oh, I’m afraid!”

Again the hidden beast gave voice to his mighty rumbling challenge. Still he did not appear, and Blake attempted a derisive jeer: “Hey, there, louder! We’ve not run yet! It’s all right, little woman. The skulking sneak is trying to bluff us. ’Fraid to come out if we don’t stampede. He’ll make off when he finds we don’t scare. Lions never tackle men in the daytime. Just keep cool a while. He’ll–”

“Look!–there to the right!–I saw him again! He’s creeping around! See the grass move!”

“That’s only the wind. It eddies down–God! he is stalking around. Trying to take us from behind–curse him! He may get me, but I’ll get him too,–the dirty sneak!”

The blood had flowed back into Blake’s face, and showed on each cheek in a little red patch. His broad chest rose and fell slowly to deep respirations; his eyes glowed like balls of white-hot steel. He drew his bow a little tauter, and wheeled slowly to keep the arrow pointed at the slight wave in the grass which marked the stealthy movements of the lion. Miss Leslie, more terrified with every added moment of suspense, cringed around, that she might keep him between her and the hidden beast.

Minute after minute dragged by. Only a man of Blake’s obstinate, sullen temperament could have withstood the strain and kept cool. Even he found the impulse to leap up and run all but irresistible. Miss Leslie crouched behind him, no more able to run than a mouse with which a cat has been playing.

Once they caught a glimpse of the sinuous, tawny form gliding among the leafless stems of a thorn clump. Blake took quick aim; but the outlines of the beast were indistinct and the range long. He hesitated, and the opportunity was lost.

Yard by yard they watched the slight swaying of the grass tops which betrayed the cautious advance of the grim stalker. The beast did not roar again. Having failed to flush his game, he was seeking to catch them off their guard, or perhaps was warily taking stock of the strange creatures, whose like he had never seen.

Now and then there was a pause, and the grass tops swayed only to the down-puffs of the heightening gale. At such moments the two grew rigid, watching and waiting in breathless suspense. They could see, as distinctly as though there had been no screening grass, the baleful eyes of the huge cat and the shaggy forebody as the beast stood still and glared out at them.

Then the sinuous wave would start on again around the grass border, and Blake would draw in a deep breath and mutter a word of encouragement to the girl: “Look, now–the dirty sneak! Trying to give us the creeps, is he? I’ll creeps him! ’Fraid to show his pretty mug!”

Not until the beast had circled half around the glade did his purpose flash upon Blake. With the wariness of all savage hunters, the animal had marked out the spur of jungle on the north side, where he could creep closer to his quarry before leaping from cover.

“The damned sneak!” growled Blake. “You there, Jenny?”

She could not speak, but he heard her gasp.

“Brace up, little woman! Where’s your grit? You’re out of this deal, anyway. He’ll choke to death swallowing me– But say; couldn’t you manage to shin up a palm, twenty feet or so, and hang on for a couple of minutes!”

“I–can’t move–I am–”

“Make a try! It’ll give me a run for my money. I’ll take the next elevator after you. That’ll bring the bluffer out on the hot-foot. I slip a surprise between his ribs, and we view the scenery while he’s passing in his checks. Come; make a spurt! He’s around the turn, and getting nearer every step.”

“I can’t–Tom,–there is no need that both of us– You climb up–”

He turned about as the meaning of her whisper dawned upon him. Her eyes were shining with the ecstasy of self-sacrifice. It was only the glance of an instant; then he was again facing the jungle.

“God! You think I’d do that!”

She made no reply. There was a pause. Blake–crouched on one knee, tense and alert–waited until the sinister wave was advancing into the point of the incurved jungle. Then he spoke, in a low, even tone: “Feel if my glass is there.”

Her hand reached around and pressed against the fob pocket which he had sewn in the belt of his skin trousers.

“Right. Now slip my club up under my elbow–big end. Lick on the nose’ll stop a dog or a bull. It’s a chance.”

She thrust the club under his right elbow, and he gripped it against his side.

At that moment the lion bounded from cover, with a roar like a clap of thunder. Blake sprang erect. The beast checked himself in the act of leaping, and crouched with his great paws outstretched, every hooked claw thrust out, ready to tear and mangle. In two or three bounds he could have leaped upon Blake and crushed him with a single stroke of his paw. As he rose to repeat his deafening roar, it seemed to Blake that he stood higher than a horse–that his mouth gaped wide as the end of a hogshead. And yet the beast stood hesitating, restrained by brute dread of the unknown. Never before had any animal that he had hunted reared up to meet his attack in this strange manner.

“Lie flat!” commanded Blake; “lie flat, and don’t move! I’m going to call his bluff. Keep still till the poison gets in its work. I’ll keep him busy long as I can. When it’s over, hit out for home along the beach. Keep inside the barricade, and watch all you can from the cliffs. Might light a fire up there nights. There’s sure to be a steamer before long–”

“Tom!” she cried, struggling to her knees,–“Tom!”

But he did not pause or look around. He was beginning to circle slowly to the left across the open ground, in a spiral curve that would bring him to the edge of the jungle within thirty yards of the lion. There was red now showing in his eyes. His hair was bristling, no longer with fear, but with sheer brute fury; his lips were drawn back from the clenched teeth; his nostrils distended and quivering; his forehead wrinkled like that of an angry mastiff. His look was more ferocious than that of the snarling beast he faced. All the primeval in him was roused. He was become a man of the Cave Age. He went to meet death, his mind and body aflame with fierce lust to kill.

The lion stilled his roars, and crouched as if to spring, snarling and grinning with rage and uncertainty. His eyes, unaccustomed to the glare of the mid-day sun, blinked incessantly, though he followed the man’s every movement, his snarls deepening into growls at the slightest change of attitude.

In his blind animal rage, Blake had forgotten that the purpose of his lateral advance was to place as great a distance as possible between him and the girl before the clash. Yet instinct kept him moving along his spiral course, on the chance that he might catch his foe off his guard.

Suddenly the lion half rose and stretched forward, sniffing. There was an uneasy whining note in his growls. Blake let the club slip from beneath his arm, and drew his bow until the arrow-head lay upon his thumb. His outstretched arm was rigid as a bar of steel. So tense and alert were all his nerves that he knew he could drive home both arrows, and still have time to swing his club before the beast was upon him.

A puff of wind struck against his back, and swept on to the nostrils of the lion, laden with the odor of man. The beast uttered a short, startled roar, and whirling about, leaped away into the jungle so quickly that Blake’s arrow flashed past a full yard behind.

The second arrow was on the string before the first had struck the ground. But the lion had vanished in the grass. With a yell, Blake dashed on across to the nearest point of the jungle. As he ran, he drew the burning-glass from his fob, and flipped it open, ready for use. If the lion had turned behind the sheltering grass stems, he was too cowardly to charge out again. Within a minute the jungle border was a wall of roaring flame.

The grass, long since dead, and bone-dry with the days of tropical sunshine since the cyclone, flared up before the wind like gunpowder. Even against the wind the fire ate its way along the ground with fearful rapidity, trailing behind it an upwhirling vortex of smoke and flame. No living creature could have burst through that belt of fire.

A wave of fierce heat sent Blake staggering back, scorched and blistered. There was no exultance in his bearing. For the moment all thought of the lion was swallowed up in awe of his own work. He stared at the hell of leaping, roaring flames from beneath his upraised arm. To the north sparks and lighted wisps of grass driven by the gale had already fired the jungle half way to the farther ridge.

Step by step Blake drew back. His heel struck against something soft. He looked down, and saw Miss Leslie lying on the sand, white and still. She had fainted, overcome by fear or by the unendurable heat. The heat must have stupefied him as well. He stared at her, dull-eyed, wondering if she was dead. His brain cleared. He sprang over to where the flask lay beside the remnants of the lunch.

He was dashing the last drops of the tepid water in her face, when she moaned, and her eyelids began to flutter. He flung down the flask, and fell to chafing her wrist.

“Tom!” she moaned.

“Yes, Miss Jenny, I’m here. It’s all right,” he answered.

“Have I had a sunstroke? Is that why it seems so– I can hardly breathe–”

“It’s all right, I tell you. Only a little bonfire I touched off. Guess you must have fainted, but it’s all right now.”

“It was silly of me to faint. But when I saw that dreadful thing leap–” She faltered, and lay shuddering. Fearful that she was about to swoon again, Blake slapped her hand between his palms with stinging force.

“You’re it!” he shouted. “The joke’s on you! Kitty jumped just the other way, and he won’t come back in a hurry with that fire to head him off. Jump up now, and we’ll do a jig on the strength of it.”

She attempted a smile, and a trace of color showed in her cheeks. With an idea that action would further her recovery, he drew her to a sitting position, stepped quickly behind, and, with his hands beneath her elbows, lifted her upright. But she was still too weak and giddy to stand alone. As he released his grip, she swayed and would have fallen had he not caught her arm.

“Steady!” he admonished. “Brace up; you’re all right.”

“I’m–I’m just a little dizzy,” she murmured, clinging to his shoulder. “It will pass in a minute. It’s so silly, but I’m that way–Tom, I–I think you are the bravest man–”

“Yes, yes–but that’s not the point. Leave go now, like a sensible girl. It’s about time to hit the trail.”

He drew himself free, and without a glance at her blushing face, began to gather up their scattered outfit. His hat lay where he had weighted it down with the cocoanut. He tossed the nut into the skin bag, and jammed the hat on his head, pulling the brim far down over his eyes. When he had fetched his club, he walked back past the girl, with his eyes averted.

“Come on,” he muttered.

The scarlet in the girl’s cheeks swept over her whole face in a burning wave, which ebbed slowly and left her colorless. Blake had started off without a backward glance. She gazed about with a bewildered look at the palms and the barren ridge and the fiery tidal wave of flame. Her gaze came back to Blake, and she followed him.

Within a short distance she found herself out of the sheltering lee of the ridge. The first wind gust almost overthrew her. She could never have walked against such a gale; but with the wind at her back she was buoyed up and borne along as though on wings. Her sole effort was to keep her foothold. Had it been their morning trip, she could have cried out with joy and skipped along before the gusts like a school-girl. Now she walked as soberly as the wind would permit, and took care not to lessen the distance between herself and Blake.

Mile by mile they hastened back across the plain,–on their right the blue sea of water, with its white-caps and spray; on their left the yellow sea of fire, with its dun fog of smoke.

Once only had Blake looked back to see if the girl was following. After that he swung along, with down-bent head, his gaze upon the ground. Even when he passed in under the grove and around the pool to the foot of the cleft, he began the ascent without waiting to assist her up the break in the path. The girl came after, her lips firm, her eyes bright and expectant. She drew herself up the ledge as though she had been bred to mountain climbing.

Inside the barricade Blake was waiting to close the opening. She crept through, and rose to catch him by the sleeve.

“Tom, look at me,” she said. “Once I was most unjust to you in my thoughts. I wronged you. Now I must tell you that I think you are the bravest–the noblest man–”

“Get away!” he exclaimed, and he shook off her hand roughly. “Don’t be a fool! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But I do, Tom. I believe that you are–”

“I’m a blackguard–do you hear?”

“No blackguard is brave. The way you faced that terrible beast–”

“Yes, blackguard–to’ve gone and shown to you that I–to’ve let you say a single word–Can’t you see? Even if I’m not what you call a gentleman, I thought I knew how any man ought to treat a woman–but to go and let you know, before we’d got back among people!”

“But–but, Tom, why not, if we–”

“No!” he retorted harshly. “I’m going now to pile up wood on the cliff for a beacon fire. In the morning I’ll start making that catamaran–”

“No, you shall not– You shall not go off, and leave me, and–and risk your life! I can’t bear to think of it! Stay with me, Tom–dear! Even if a ship never came–”

He turned resolutely, so as not to see her blushing face.

“Come now, Miss Leslie,” he said in a dry, even tone; “don’t make it so awfully hard. Let’s be sensible, and shake hands on it, like two real comrades–”

She struck frantically at his outstretched hand.

“Keep away–I hate you!” she cried.

Before he could speak, she was running up the cleft.