“Which boat has the stores, Reddy?  I’m twisted all around.”

“The nighest, Thirkle.  The nighest has the stores, and the other the tackle.”

“You go round the other side for the block, Reddy.  We better take the spare boat with us and set it adrift after we clear the channel, or load it with stones and let it go down after we are clear of the island.  Then we’ll get the wind and slip down the coast to the first native town.  That’s better than waiting to be picked up and having to answer questions that wouldn’t carry by.  No Manila-bound boat for us, to land about the time the Kut Sang was reported overdue.”

“Right ye are, Thirkle,” said Petrak, stumbling about in the dark.  “It’s black as a Kroo boy in here,” and presently he began to drag the block through the dead leaves and brambles.

“’No need for the tackle, sir, once we get clear of the sand, in my mind.  We can skid ’em with oars, and lighten the stowed one—­hey, Thirkle?  I ain’t for leavin’ no marks hereabouts, and we can drag some bushes over the wake we leave in the sand, so—­”

“We’ll see about that when we get clear,” said Thirkle gruffly.  “Hold yer lip now.”

Thirkle was busy pulling the palm-leaves from the boats and clearing the litter with which they had covered their cache.  I could hear him tugging at the sail which they had spread over the outer boat.  The moonlight was getting brighter, and more stars were coming out, and the jungle was beginning to awaken.  A lizard set up a monotonous croak in the branches overhead, and insects and unseen things began to stir in the foliage.

“Blast this mess of halyards and gear Bucky strewed alongside—­”

I heard Thirkle draw his breath sharply as he left the sentence unfinished.  He drew away from the boat in a quick, involuntary movement, and I managed to twist my neck so that I could observe him.  He stood motionless for a minute, his figure a queer fretwork of light and shadow from the creepers and palms.

“Reddy!” he called cautiously.  “Oh, Petrak!” Something in his tones—­a suggestion of suspicion that everything was not right—­thrilled me.  Petrak did not hear him as he was fumbling with the block in the sand and muttered about a jammed rope.

“Petrak!”

“Aye,” said Petrak.  “I’ll give ye a hand next minute, sir.”

“Come here,” commanded Thirkle with a hand on a pistol.

“What’s up?” demanded Petrak, getting to his feet.  “Can’t ye start it—­what’s wrong, Thirkle?”

“Come up here and haul out some of the gear in this boat—­move navy style, lad—­we can’t be wasting the whole night!  Reach in there and clear that mess of halyard.”

But Petrak did not move.  He knew something was wrong; but whether it was Thirkle he feared, or what Thirkle seemed afraid of, I did not know.  I thought he suspected treachery.

“What’s wrong, Thirkle?” he demanded.