Into the Primitive. Robert Ames Bennet

that kind of blatter. Any fool can see we’re in a tight hole, and we’re like to keep company for a while–probably long as we last.”

      “What–ah–may I ask, do you mean by that?”

      Blake laughed harshly, and pointed from the reef-strewn sea to the vast stretches of desolate marsh. Far inland, across miles of brackish lagoons and reedy mud-flats, could be seen groups of scrubby, half-leafless trees; ten or twelve miles to the southward a rocky headland jutted out into the water; otherwise there was nothing in sight but sea and swamp. If it could not properly be termed a sea-view, it was at least a very wet landscape.

      “Fine prospect,” remarked Blake, dryly. “We’ll be in luck if the fever don’t get the last of us inside a month; and as for you two, you’d have as much show of lasting a month as a toad with a rattlesnake, if it wasn’t for Tom Blake,–that’s my name–Tom Blake,–and as long as this shindy lasts, you’re welcome to call me Tom or Blake, whichever suits. But understand, we’re not going to have any more of your bloody, bloomin’ English condescension. Aboard ship you had the drop on me, and could pile on dog till the cows came home. Here I’m Blake, and you’re Winthrope.”

      “Believe me, Mr. Blake, I quite appreciate the–ah–situation. And now, I fancy that, instead of wasting time–”

      “It’s about time you introduced me to the lady,” interrupted Blake, and he stared at them half defiantly, yet with a twinkle in his eyes.

      Miss Leslie flushed. Winthrope swore softly, and bit his lip. Aboard ship, backed by Lady Bayrose and the captain, he had goaded the American at pleasure. Now, however, the situation was reversed. Both title and authority had been swept away by the storm, and he was left to shift for himself against the man who had every reason to hate him for his overbearing insolence. Worse still, both he and Miss Leslie were now dependent upon the American, in all probability for life itself. It was a bitter pill and hard to swallow.

      Blake was not slow to observe the Englishman’s hesitancy. He grinned.

      “Every dog has his day, and I guess this is mine,” he said. “Take your time, if it comes hard. I can imagine it’s a pretty stiff dose for your ludship. But why in–why in frozen hades an American lady should object to an introduction to a countryman who’s going to do his level best to save her pretty little self from the hyenas–well, it beats me.”

      Winthrope flushed redder than the girl.

      “Miss Leslie, Mr. Blake,” he murmured, hoping to put an end to the situation.

      But yet Blake persisted. He bowed, openly exultant.

      “You see, Miss,” he said, “I know the correct thing quite as much as your swells. I knew all along you were Jenny Leslie. I ran a survey for your dear papa when he was manipulating the Q. T. Railroad, and he did me out of my pay.”

      “Oh, but Mr. Blake, I am sure it must be a mistake; I am sure that if it is explained to papa–”

      “Yes; we’ll cable papa to-night. Meantime, we’ve something else to do. Suppose you two get a hustle on yourselves, and scrape up something to eat. I’m going out to see what’s left of that blamed old tub.”

      “Surely you’ll not venture to swim out so far!” protested Winthrope. “I saw the steamer sink as we cast off.”

      “Looks like a mast sticking up out there. Maybe some of the rigging is loose.”

      “But the sharks! These waters swarm with the vile creatures. You must not risk your life!”

      “’Cause why? If I do, the babes in the woods will be left without even the robins to cover them, poor things! But cheer up!–maybe the mud-hens will do it with lovely water-lilies.”

      “Please, Mr. Blake, do not be so cruel!” sobbed Miss Leslie, her tears starting afresh. “The sun makes my head ache dreadfully, and I have no hat or shade, and I’m becoming so thirsty!”

      “And you think you’ve only to wait, and half a dozen stewards will come running with parasols and ice water. Neither you nor Winthrope seem to ’ve got your eyes open. Just suppose you get busy and do something. Winthrope, chase yourself over the mud, and get together a mess of fish that are not too dead. Must be dozens, after the blow. As for you, Miss Jenny, I guess you can pick up some reeds, and rig a headgear out of this handkerchief– Wait a moment. Put on my coat, if you don’t want to be broiled alive through the holes of that peek-a-boo.”

      “But I say, Blake–” began Winthrope.

      “Don’t say–do!” rejoined Blake; and he started down the muddy shore.

      Though the tide was at flood, there was now no cyclone to drive the sea above the beach, and Blake walked a quarter of a mile before he reached the water’s edge. There was little surf, and he paused only a few moments to peer out across the low swells before he commenced to strip.

      Winthrope and Miss Leslie had been watching his movements; now the girl rose in a little flurry of haste, and set to gathering reeds. Winthrope would have spoken, but, seeing her embarrassment, smiled to himself, and began strolling about in search of fish.

      It was no difficult search. The marshy ground was strewn with dead sea-creatures, many of which were already shrivelling and drying in the sun. Some of the fish had a familiar look, and Winthrope turned them over with the tip of his shoe. He even went so far as to stoop to pick up a large mullet; but shrank back, repulsed by its stiffness and the unnatural shape into which the sun was warping it.

      He found himself near the beach, and stood for half an hour or more watching the black dot far out in the water,–all that was to be seen of Blake. The American, after wading off-shore another quarter of a mile, had reached swimming depth, and was heading out among the reefs with steady, vigorous strokes. Half a mile or so beyond him Winthrope could now make out the goal for which he was aiming,–the one remaining topmast of the steamer.

      “By Jove, these waters are full of sharks!” murmured Winthrope, staring at the steadily receding dot until it disappeared behind the wall of surf which spumed up over one of the outer reefs.

      A call from Miss Leslie interrupted his watch, and he hastened to rejoin her. After several failures, she had contrived to knot Blake’s handkerchief to three or four reeds in the form of a little sunshade. Her shoulders were protected by Blake’s coat. It made a heavy wrap, but it shut out the blistering sun-rays, which, as Blake had foreseen, had quickly begun to burn the girl’s delicate skin through her open-work bodice.

      Thus protected, she was fairly safe from the sun. But the sun was by no means the worst feature of the situation. While Winthrope was yet several yards distant, the girl began to complain to him. “I’m so thirsty, Mr. Winthrope! Where is there any water? Please get me a drink at once, Mr. Winthrope!”

      “But, my dear Miss Leslie, there is no water. These pools are all sea-water. I must say, I’m deuced dry myself. I can’t see why that cad should go off and leave us like this, when we need him most.”

      “Indeed, it is a shame–Oh, I’m so thirsty! Do you think it would help if we ate something?”

      “Make it all the worse. Besides, how could we cook anything? All these reeds are green, or at least water-soaked.”

      “But Mr, Blake said to gather some fish. Had you not best–”

      “He can pick up all he wants. I shall not touch the beastly things.”

      “Then I suppose there is nothing to do but wait for him.”

      “Yes, if the sharks do not get him.”

      Miss Leslie uttered a little moan, and Winthrope, seeing that she was on the verge of tears, hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry about him, Miss Genevieve! He’ll soon return, with nothing worse than a blistered back. Fellows of that sort are born to hang, you know.”

      “But if he should be–if anything should happen