“Ah, but lads of thirteen couldn’t well come such a distance on their own, you know,” returned Apollo, with the kindest air of making allowance for the female intellect.

I hurriedly turned the subject.

“I really can’t imagine Aunt Jane on a desert island.  You should see her behave on the mere suspicion of a mouse!  What will she do if she meets a cannibal and he tries to eat her?”

“Oh, really, now,” argued the paragon earnestly, “I’m quite sure there’s no danger of that, don’t you know?  I believe there are no natives at all on the island, or else quite tame ones, I forget which, and here are four of us chaps, with no end of revolvers and things—­shooting-irons, as you call them in America.  Mr. Shaw—­sitting opposite Miss Browne, you know—­is rather running things, so if you feel nervous you should talk to him.  Was with the South Polar Expedition and all that—­knows no end about this sort of thing—­wouldn’t for a moment think of letting ladies run the risk of being eaten.  Really I hope you aren’t in a funk about the cannibals—­especially as with so many missionary Johnnies about they are most likely all converted.”

“It’s so comforting to think of it in that light!” I said fervently.  At the same time I peeped around Apollo for a glimpse of the experienced Mr. Shaw.  I saw a strong-featured, weather-beaten profile, the face of a man somewhere in his thirties, and looking, from this side view at least, not only stern but grim.  He was talking quietly to the captain, whose manner toward him was almost civil.

I made up my mind at once that the backbone of the party, and inevitably the leader in its projected villainies, whatever they might be, was this rugged-looking Mr. Shaw.  You couldn’t fancy him as the misled follower of anybody, even the terrific Violet.

As it seemed an unpropitious moment for taking counsel with Mr. Shaw about cannibals, I tried another tack with the beautiful youth at my side.

“How did you like Panama?  I fancy the old town is very picturesque.”

“Oh, rather!” assented Mr. Vane.  “At least, that is what those painter chaps call it—­met a couple of ’em at the hotel.  Beastly little narrow streets and houses in a shocking state and all that.  I like to see property kept up, myself.”

“I am afraid,” I said severely, “that you are a philistine!”

He blinked a little.  “Ah—­quite so!” he murmured, recovering himself gallantly.  “One of those chaps that backed Goliath against David, what?”

From this conversational impasse we were rescued by the interposition of the gentleman opposite, whose small twinkling eyes had been taking me in with intentness.