Deigning no reply, Bickley walked away to fetch some fine fish which had been washed up by the tidal wave and were still flapping about in a little pool of salt water.  Then we took counsel as to how to make the best of our circumstances, and as a result set to work to tidy up the saloon and cabins, which was not difficult as what remained of the ship lay on an even keel.  Also we got out some necessary stores, including paraffin for the swinging lamps with which the ship was fitted in case of accident to the electric light, candles, and the guns we had brought with us so that they might be handy in the event of attack.  This done, by the aid of the tools that were in the storerooms, Bickley, who was an excellent carpenter, repaired the saloon door, all that was necessary to keep us private, as the bulkhead still remained.

“Now,” he said triumphantly when he had finished and got the lock and bolts to work to his satisfaction, “we can stand a siege if needed, for as the ship is iron built they can’t even burn us out and that teak door would take some forcing.  Also we can shore it up.”

“How about something to eat?  I want my tea,” said Bastin.

“Then, my reverend friend,” replied Bickley, “take a couple of the fire buckets and fetch some water from the stream.  Also collect driftwood of which there is plenty about, clean those fish and grill them over the saloon stove.”

“I’ll try,” said Bastin, “but I never did any cooking before.”

“No,” replied Bickley, “on second thoughts I will see to that myself, but you can get the fish ready.”

So, with due precautions, Bastin and I fetched water from the stream which we found flowed over the edge of the cliff quite close at hand into a beautiful coral basin that might have been designed for a bath of the nymphs.  Indeed one at a time, while the other watched, we undressed and plunged into it, and never was a tub more welcome than after our long days of tempest.  Then we returned to find that Bickley had already set the table and was engaged in frying the fish very skilfully on the saloon stove, which proved to be well adapted to the purpose.  He was cross, however, when he found that we had bathed and that it was now too late for him to do likewise.

While he was cleaning himself as well as he could in his cabin basin and Bastin was boiling water for tea, suddenly I remembered the letter from the Danish mate Jacobsen.  Concluding that it might now be opened as we had certainly parted with most of the Star of the South for the last time, I read it.  It was as follows: 

“The reason, honoured Sir, that I am leaving the ship is that on the night I tore up the paper, the spirit controlling the planchette wrote these words:  ’After leaving Samoa the Star of the South will be wrecked in a hurricane and everybody on board drowned except A. B. and B. Get out of her!  Get out of her!  Don’t be a fool, Jacob, unless you want to come over here at once.  Take our advice and get out of her and you will live to be old.—­ Skoll.”