This was a new idea, and the dying man jumped at it.

“Of course, of course,” he said; “I never thought of that before.  I will do it at once, and cut Addison and Roscoe out altogether.  Eustace shall have every farthing.  I never thought of that before.  Come, give me your hand; I’ll get up and see about it.”

“Stop a minute,” said Augusta.  “How are you going to write a will without pen or pencil, or paper or ink?”

Mr. Meeson sank back with a groan.  This difficulty had not occurred to him.

“Are you sure nobody has got a pencil and a bit of paper?” he asked.  “It would do, so long as the writing remained legible.”

“I don’t think so,” said Augusta, “but I will inquire.”  Accordingly she went and asked Bill and Johnnie:  but neither of them had a pencil or a single scrap of paper, and she returned sadly to communicate the news.

“I have got it, I have got it,” said Mr. Meeson, as she approached the spot where he lay upon the rock.  “If there is no paper or pen, we must write it in blood upon some linen.  We can make a pen from the feathers of a bird.  I read somewhere in a book of somebody who did that.  It will do as well as anything else.”

Here was an idea, indeed, and one that Augusta jumped at.  But in another moment her enthusiasm received a check.  Where was there any linen to write on?

“Yes,” she said, “if you can find some linen.  You have got on a flannel shirt, so have the two sailors, and little Dick is dressed in flannel, too.”

It was a fact.  As it happened, not one of the party had a scrap of linen on them, or anything that would answer the purpose.  Indeed, they had only one pocket-handkerchief between them, and it was a red rag full of holes.  Augusta had had one, but it had blown overboard when they were in the boat.  What would they not have given for that pocket-handkerchief now!

“Yes,” said Mr. Meeson, “it seems we have none.  I haven’t even get a bank-note, or I might have written in blood upon that; though I have got a hundred sovereigns in gold—­I grabbed them up before I bolted from the cabin.  But I say—­excuse me, Miss Smithers, but—­um—­ah—­oh! hang modesty—­haven’t you got some linen on, somewhere or other, that you could spare a bit of?  You shan’t lose by giving it to me.  There, I promise that I will tear up the agreement if ever I get out of this—­which I shan’t—­which I shan’t—­and I will write on the linen that it is to be torn up.  Yes, and that you are to have five thousand pounds legacy too, Miss Smithers.  Surely you can spare me a little bit—­just off the skirt, or somewhere, you know, Miss Smithers?  It never will be missed, and it is so very important.”

Augusta blushed, and no wonder.  “I am sorry to say I have nothing of the sort about me, Mr. Meeson—­nothing except flannel,” she said.  “I got up in the middle of the night before the collision, and there was no light in the cabin, and I put on whatever came first, meaning to come back and dress afterwards when it got light.”