I stole a glance at the recipient of these sorry thanks.  His face was set and—­once I should have called it grim, but I knew better now.  There was nothing I could say or do.  Any words of mine would have sounded forced and puerile.  What he had done was so far beyond thanks that spoken gratitude belittled it.  And yet, suppose he thought that like the rest I had wished another in his place?  Did he think that—­could he, with the memory of my arms about his neck?

I only knew that because of the foolish hateful words that had been said, the gulf between us was wider than before.

I sat dumb, consumed with misery and hoping that perhaps I might meet his glance and so tell him silently all that words would only mar.  But he never looked at me.  And then the first bitterness, which had made even Cuthbert seem disloyal in wishing himself in his friend’s place, passed, and gave way to dreary doubt.  Cuthbert knew, of course, that he himself would have prized—­what to Dugald Shaw was a matter of indifference.  Yes, that was it, and the worst that Dugald Shaw was suffering now was boredom at hearing the affair so everlastingly discussed.

So I began talking very fast to Mr. Vane and we were very gay and he tied his own necktie on Crusoe on consideration that he be held hereafter jointly.  And—­because I saw that Dugald Shaw was looking now—­I smiled lingeringly into the eyes of the beautiful youth and said all right, perhaps we needn’t quarrel over our mutual dog, and then skipped off lightsomely, feeling exactly like a scorpion that has been wounding itself with its own sting.

As I passed Cookie at his dishpan a sudden thought struck me.

“Cookie,” I remarked, “you had a frightfully queer look just now when Captain Magnus told about having taken the wrong cartridges.  What was the matter?”

Cookie took his hands out of the water and wiped off the suds, casting about stealthy and mysterious glances.  Then he rolled a dubious eye at me.

“What was it, Cookie?” I urged.

“War am Cap’n now?”

“Down on the beach; he can’t possibly hear you.”

“You won’t say nothin’ to git Cookie in a rumpus?”

“Cross my heart to die, Cookie.”

“Well, den”—­Cookie spoke in a hoarse whisper—­“Cap’n say he forgit to take his gun ca’tridges.  Miss Jinny, when he come back, I see him empty his gun ca’tridges out’n his belt and put back his pistol cartridges.  So dere now!”

I turned from Cookie, too surprised to speak.  Why had Captain Magnus been at pains to invent a lie about so trivial a matter?  I recalled, too, that Mr. Shaw’s question had confused him, that he had hesitated and stammered before answering it.  Why?  Was he a bad shot and ashamed of it?  Had he preferred to say that he had taken the wrong ammunition rather than admit that he could get no bag?  That must be the explanation, because there was no other.  Certainly no imaginable errand but the one assigned could have taken the captain to the other side of the island.