“No,” said Bevis. “I left it there last night; don’t you remember I cut
a piece for Pan, and he would not eat it?”
“Yes; well, it’s gone. Come and see.” They went to the shelf--the
cooked bacon was certainly gone; nor was it on the ground or in any
other part of the hut or cave.
“Pan must have dragged it down,” said Bevis; “and yet it’s too high, and
besides, he didn’t care for it.”
“He could not jump so high,” said Mark. “Besides, he has been with us
all the time.”
“So he has.” They had kept Pan close by them, ever since he disturbed
the kangaroos so much. “Then, it could not have been Pan.”
“And I don’t see how rats could climb up, either,” said Mark. “The
posts,” (to which the shelf was fixed) “are upright--”
“Mice can run up the leg of a chair,” said Bevis.
“That’s only a short way; this is--let me see--why it’s higher than your
shoulder.”
“If it was not Pan, nor rats, what could it be?” said Bevis.
“Something’s been here,” said Mark; “Pan could smell it when he came
in.”
“Something was up in the oak,” said Bevis, “and now he’s gone racing
light to the other end of the island.”
“Something took the bit of bacon on the ground.”
“And gnawed the jack’s head.”
“And had the piece of damper.”
“And took the potatoes.”
“Took the potatoes twice--the cooked ones and the raw ones.”
“It’s very curious.”
“I don’t believe Pan could have jumped up--he would have shaken the
other things off the shelf, too, if he had got his great paws on.”
“It must have been something,” said Bevis; “things could not go off by
themselves.”
“There’s something in the island we don’t know,” said Mark, nodding his
head up and down, as was his way at times when upset or full of an idea.
“Lions!” said Bevis. “Lions could get up.”
“We should have heard them roar.”
“Tigers?”
“They would have killed Pan.”
“But you think there’s one in the reeds.”
“Yes, but he did not come here.”
“Boas?”
“No.”
“Panthers?”
“No.”
“Something out of the curious wave you saw?”
“Perhaps. Well, it _is_ curious now, isn’t it?” said Mark. “Just
think; first, Pan could not have had it, and then rats could not have
had it, but it’s gone.”
“Pan, Pan,” shouted Bevis sternly, as the spaniel came in at the gateway
hesitatingly; “come here.” The spaniel crouched, knowing that he should
have a thrashing.
“See if anything’s bitten him,” said Mark. “What have you been after,
sir?”
He examined Pan carefully; there were no signs of a fight on him--
nothing but cleavers or the seeds of goose-grass clinging to his coat.
Bang--thump--thump! yow! Pan had his thrashing, and crept after them to
and fro, not even daring to curl himself up in a corner, but dragging
himself along on the ground behind them.
“Think,” said Mark, as he turned the mushrooms on the gridiron; “now,
what was it?”
“Not a fox?” said Bevis.
“No; foxes would not swim out here; there are plenty of rabbits for them
in the jungle on the mainland.”
“Nor eagles?”
“No.”
“Might be a cat.”
“But there are no cats on the island, and, besides, cats would not take
bacon when there were the two moorhens on the shelf.”
“No; Pan would have had the moorhens too, if it had been him.”
“So would anything, and that’s why it’s so curious.”
“Nobody could have come here, could they?” said Bevis. “The punt’s at
the bottom, and the Pinta’s chained up--”
“And we must have seen them if they swam off.”
“Nobody can swim,” said Bevis, “except you and me and the governor.”
“No,” said Mark, “no more they can--not even Big Jack.”
“Nobody in all the place but us. It could not have been the governor,
because if he found the hut he would have stopped to see who lived in
it.”
“Of course he would. And besides, he could not have come without our
knowing it; we are always about.”
“Always about,” said Bevis, “and we should have seen footsteps.”
“Or heard a splashing.”
“And Pan would not bark at him,” said Bevis. “No, it could not have
been any one; it must have been something.”
“Something,” repeated Mark.
“And very likely out of your magic wave.”
“But what _could_ it be out of the wave?”
“I can’t think; something magic. It doesn’t matter.”
They had dinner, and then, as usual, went up on the cliff to wait for
Charlie’s signal.
“I shall try and catch some perch to-morrow,” said Mark, “if there’s any
wind. We’re always eating the same thing.”
“Every day,” said Bevis, “and the cooking is the greatest hatefulness
ever known.”
“Takes up so much time.”
“Makes you hot and horrid.”
“Vile.”
“It wants Frances, as I said.”
“No, thank you; I wish Jack would have her.”
Mark looked through the telescope for Charlie, and then swept the shores
of the New Sea.
“How could anything get to our island?” he said. “Nothing could get to
it.”
From the elevation of the cliff they saw and felt the isolation of their
New Formosa.
“It was out of your magic wave,” said Bevis; “something magic.”
“But you put the wizard’s foot on the gate?”
“So I did, but perhaps I did not draw it quite right; I’ll do it again.
But rats are made to gnaw the lines off sometimes, and let magic things
in.”
“Draw another in ink.”
“So I will. There’s a sea-swallow.”
“There’s two.”
“There’s four or five.”
The white sea-swallows passed them, going down the water, coming from
the south. They flew a few yards above the surface, in an irregular
line--an easy flight, so easy they scarcely seemed to know where each
flap of the wing would carry them.
“There will be a storm.”
“A tornado.”
“Not yet--the sky’s clear.”
“But we must keep a watch, and be careful how we sail on the raft.”
The appearance of the sea-swallow or tern in inland waters is believed,
like that of the gull, to indicate tempest, though the sea-swallows
usually come in the finest of weather.
“There’s Charlie. There are two--three,” said Mark, snatching up the
telescope. “It’s Val and Cecil. Charlie’s waving his handkerchief.”
“There, it’s all right,” said Bevis.
“They are pointing this way,” said Mark. “They’re talking about us.
Can they see us?”
“No, the brambles would not let them.”
“I dare say they’re as cross as cross,” said Mark.
“They want to come. I don’t know,” said Bevis, as if considering.
“Know what?” said Mark sharply.
“That it’s altogether nice of us.”
“Rubbish--as if they would have let _us_ come.”
“Still, we are not them, and we might if they would not.”
“Now, don’t you be stupid,” said Mark appealingly. “Don’t _you_ go
stupid.”
“No,” said Bevis, laughing; “but they must come after we have done.”
“O! yes, of course. See, they’re going towards the firs: there, they’re
going to cross the Nile. I know, don’t you see, they’re going round the
New Sea, like we did, to try and find us--”
“Are they?” said Bevis. “They shan’t find us,” resentfully. The moment
he thought the rest were going to try and force themselves on his plans,
his mind changed. “We won’t go on the raft this afternoon.”
“No,” said Mark; “nor too near the edge of the island.”
“We’ll keep out of sight. Is there anything they could see?”
“The raft.”
“Ah! No; you think, when they get opposite so as to be where they could
see the raft, then Serendib is between.”
“So it is. No, there’s nothing they can see; only we will not go too
near the shore.”
“No.”
“What shall we do this afternoon?” said Mark, as they went down to the
hut. Pan was idly lying in the narrow shade of the fence.
“We mustn’t shoot,” said Bevis, “and we can’t go on the raft, because
the savages are prowling round, and we mustn’t play cards, nor do some
chopping; let’s go round the island and explore the interior.”
“First-rate,” said Mark; “just the very thing; you take your bow and
arrows--you need not shoot, but just in case of savages--and I’ll take
my spear in case of the tiger in the reeds, or the something that comes
out of the wave.”
“And a hatchet,” said Bevis, “to blaze our way. That would not be
chopping.”
“No, not proper chopping. Make Pan keep close. Perhaps we shall find
some footmarks of the Something--spoor, you know.”
“Come on. Down, sir.” Pan accordingly walked behind.
First they went and looked at the raft, which was moored to an alder,
taking care not to expose themselves on the shore, but looking at it
from behind the boughs. They said they would finish fitting it up
to-morrow morning, and then tried to think of a name for it. Bevis said
there was no name in the Odyssey for Ulysses’ raft, but as Calypso gave
him the tools to make it, and wove the sail for him with her loom, they
agreed to call the raft the Calypso. Then they tried to find a shorter
way in to the knoll, which they called Kangaroo Hill, but were stopped
by the impenetrable blackthorns.
As these were “wait-a-bit” thorns, Mark thought the island could not be
far from Africa. Skirting the “wait-a-bits,” they found some more hazel
bushes, and discovered that the nuts were ripe, and stopped and filled
their pockets. After all their trouble they had to go round the old way
to get to Kangaroo Hill, and as they went between the trees Bevis cut
off a slice of bark from every other trunk, so that in future they could
walk quickly guided by the blaze, which would show too in the dusk.
From the knoll they walked across to the ivy-grown oak, and Bevis gave
Mark a “bunt” up into it. Mark found a wood-pigeon’s nest (empty, of
course), but nothing else. The oak was large and old, not very tall,
and seemed decaying; indeed, there was a hollow into which he thrust his
spear, but did not rouse any creature from its lair. There was nothing
in the oak. Bevis looked at the bark of the trunk, to see if any wild
beast had left the marks of its claws in climbing up, just as cats do,
but there was no trace.
They then went farther into the wood in the direction Pan had run away
from Bevis, and found it sometimes open and sometimes much encumbered
with undergrowth. Nothing appeared to them to be trampled, nor did they
find any spoor. Pan showed no excitement, simply following, from which
they supposed that whatever it had been it had gone.
After awhile they found the trees thinner and the ground declined, and
here in a hollow ash, short and very much decayed within, there was a
hive, or rather a nest of bees. There was a shrill hum round it as the
bees continually went in and out, returning in straight lines, radiating
to all parts of the compass, so that they did not care to venture too
near. They appeared to be the hive-bees, not wild bees, but a swarm
that had wandered from the mainland.
How to take the honey was not so easily settled, till they thought of
making a powder-monkey, and so smoking them out, or rather stupefying
them in the same way as the hives were taken at home with the brimstone
match. By damping gunpowder and forming it into a cake it would burn
slowly and send up dense fumes, which would answer the same as sulphur.
Then they could chop a way into the honeycomb. Seeing a tomtit on a
bough watching for a chance to take a bee if one alighted before he went
in, they considered it a sign they were off the mainland of Africa, as
this was the honey-bird.
Several tall spruce firs grew lower down, and under these they could see
over the New Sea to the south-east towards the unknown river. Here they
sat down in the shade and cracked their nuts. One or two bees came to a
burdock which flowered not far from their feet, but besides the hum as
they passed there was no sound, for the light south-east air, playing in
the tops of the firs, was too idle to sing. Yet the motion of the air,
coming off the water, was just sufficient to cool them in the shade.
Far away between the trunks they could see the jungle on the mainland.
Just below, on the shore of the island, a large willow-tree had been
overthrown by the tempest on the day of the battle, and lay prone in the
water, but still attached to the land by its roots. The nuts were juicy
and sweet, but the day was so pleasant that Bevis presently put the nuts
down and extended himself on his back. High above hung the long brown
cones of the fir, and the dark green of its branches seemed to deepen
the blue of the sky. With half-closed eyes he gazed up into the azure,
till Mark feared he would go to sleep.
“Tell me a story,” he said. “I’ll tickle you, and you tell me a story.
Here’s a parrot’s feather.”
It was a wood-pigeon’s, knocked out as the bird struck a branch in his
rude haste. Mark tickled Bevis’s face and neck. “Tell me a story,” he
said.
“My grandpa is the man for stories,” said Bevis. “If you ask him to
tell you the story of his walking-stick, he’ll tell you all about it,
and then two or three more; only you must be careful to ask him for the
walking-stick one first, and then he’ll give you five shillings.”
“Regular moke,” said Mark. “He stumped into London with the stick and a
bundle, didn’t he, and made five millions of money?”
“Heaps more than that.”
“Now tell me a story.”
“Tickle me then--very nicely.”
“Now go on.”
Volume Three, Chapter V.