HANK
Hank, as before mentioned, was a man of resource; there was nothing
much he could not do with his hands backed by his head. In two hours on
board the _Wear Jack_ he had found the materials for and constructed
three tent poles; in the sail room, and by sacrificing the awning, he
had obtained the necessary canvas; ropes and pegs evolved themselves
from nowhere as if by magic. Then in some way, and from the interior of
the _Wear Jack_, he managed to get planking, not much, but enough for
his purpose. Whilst he worked on these matters, George superintended
the removal of stores, bully beef, canned tomatoes, canned kippered
herrings, biscuits, butter, tea, condensed milk, rice. He sent two
Chinks ashore with a boat-load; then, when they came back, the rest of
the stuff was loaded into the boat, together with the tent poles and
canvas and blankets. Last came a small bundle containing Tommie’s night
things and tooth brush. Then they pushed off.
Candon helped in the unloading of the boat and then they set to raising
the tents.
In this section of the bay there were two breaks in the line of cliffs,
a north and a south break. Hank drew the line of the tents between the
breaks and at right angles to the cliffs, so as to escape, as much as
possible, the hot land wind when it blew. Also he put a long distance
between each tent. Tommie’s was nearest the cliffs, the Chinks’ nearest
the sea. By sunset the canvas was up, a fire lit, a beaker filled with
fresh water from the issue in the cliff and the stores piled to leeward
of the middle tent. Hank had even brought mosquito netting and a plan
for using it in the tents. He seemed to have forgotten nothing, till
Tommie opened her bundle.
“Where’s my book?” asked Tommie.
“Blest if I haven’t forgot it!” cried Hank. “Chucklehead—say! I’ll put
off right now and fetch it.”
“Oh, it’ll wait,” said the other. “I guess I’ll be busy enough for a
while not to want books. You can fetch it tomorrow.”
If Hank had known the consequences of delay, he would have fetched
it there and then, but he didn’t. He went to attend to the fire. The
fire was built of dry seaweed, bits of a broken-up packing case and
fragments of wreck wood, and when the kettle was boiled over it and tea
made, the sun had set and the stars were looking down on the beach.
After supper Tommie went off to her tent, leaving the men to smoke. The
two Chinks, who had built a microscopic fire of their own, were seated
close to it talking, maybe of China and home. The wind had died out and
through the warm night the sound of the waves all down the beach came
like a lullaby.
Hank was giving his ideas of how they should start in the morning
attacking the sand, when Candon, who had been smoking silently,
suddenly cut in.
“I’ve told her,” said Candon.
“What you say?” asked Hank.
“I’ve told her all about myself and who I am, and the chances, told her
when you chaps went off for the stores. Told her it’s possible McGinnis
may light down on us before we’ve done, seeing the work before us on
that sand, and there’ll maybe be fighting she oughtn’t to be mixed up
in.”
“B’gosh!” said Hank. “I never thought of that. What did she say?”
“Oh, she said, ‘Let him come.’ Wouldn’t listen to anything about
turning back, said we’d be quitters if we dropped it now.”
“Lord, she’s a peach.”
“She’s more than that,” said Candon. “Well, I’m going for a breather
before turning in.” He tapped his pipe out and, rising, walked off down
along the sea edge.
George laughed. He was laughing at the size of Candon compared to the
size of Tommie, and the quaint idea that had suddenly come to him, the
idea that Candon had suddenly become gone on her.
George could view the matter in a detached way, for though T. C.
appealed to him as an individual, he scarcely considered her as a girl.
A lot of little signs and symptoms collected themselves together in
his head, capped by the tone of those words, “She’s more than that.”
Yes, it was highly probable that the heart punch had come to B. C. Why
not? Tommie as an anchor wasn’t much, as far as size went, yet as far
as character and heart—who could tell? All the indications were in her
favour.
“She’s a peach,” murmured Hank, half aloud, half to himself.
Hullo, thought George, has old Hank gone bughouse on her too! Then
aloud: “You mean Tommie?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, she’s not so bad.”
“And I went and forgot her book! Bud, d’you remember to-day, when we
were all standing like a lot of lost hoodlums, going to turn our backs
on this proposition, and the way she yanked us round? It came on me
then.”
“What?”
“I dunno. Bud, say—”
“Yes?”
“She’s great. It came on me to-day like a belt on the head with a
sandbag. It came to me before. Remember the day she was first aboard
and wouldn’t put back, wanting to save our faces? Well, that hit me,
but the jaw punch got me to-day, and just now when she trundled off to
her tent, lugging that blanket behind her, I seemed to get one in the
solar plexus that near sent me through the ropes. Bud, I’m on my back,
being counted out.”
“Oh, talk sense,” said Bud. “We’ve too much work on hand to be carrying
on with girls. Tie a knot in it, Hank, till we’re clear of this place,
anyhow. Besides it’s ten to one there’s some other chap after her.”
A form loomed up coming towards them. It was Candon.