There was one very heavy package which their united strength could not lift.  The sailor searched round until he found an iron bar that could be wrenched from its socket.  With this he pried open the strong outer cover and revealed the contents—­regulation boxes of Lee-Metford ammunition, each containing 500 rounds.

“Ah!” he cried, “now we want some rifles.”

“What good would they be?” inquired Iris.

He softly denounced himself as a fool, but he answered at once:  “To shoot birds, of course, Miss Deane.  There are plenty here, and many of them are edible.”

“You have two revolvers and some cartridges.”

“Yes.  They are useful in a way, but not for pot hunting.”

“How stupid of me!  What you really need is a shot-gun.”

He smiled grimly.  At times his sense of humor forced a way through the outward shield of reserve, of defiance it might be.

“The only persons I ever heard of,” he said, “who landed under compulsion on a desert island with a ship-load of requisites, were the Swiss Family Robinson.”

“Good gracious!” cried Iris irrelevantly; “I had not even thought of Robinson Crusoe until this moment.  Isn’t it odd?  I—­we—­”

She pulled herself up short, firmly resolved not to blush.  Without flinching she challenged him to complete her sentence.  He dared not do it.  He could not be mean enough to take advantage of her slip.

Instantly he helped her embarrassment.  “I hope the parallel will not hold good,” he said.  “In any event, you, Miss Deane, fill a part less familiar in fiction.”

The phrase was neat.  It meant much or little, as fancy dictated.  Iris at first felt profoundly grateful for his tact.  Thinking the words over at leisure she became hot and very angry.

They worked in silence for another hour.  The sun was nearing the zenith.  They were distressed with the increasing heat of the day.  Jenks secured a ham and some biscuits, some pieces of driftwood and the binoculars, and invited Miss Deane to accompany him to the grove.  She obeyed without a word, though she wondered how he proposed to light a fire.  To contribute something towards the expected feast she picked up a dish-cover and a bottle of champagne.

The sailor eyed the concluding item with disfavor.  “Not whilst the sun is up.” he said.  “In the evening, yes.”

“It was for you,” explained Iris, coldly.  “I do not drink wine.”

“You must break the pledge whilst you are here, Miss Deane.  It is often very cold at night in this latitude.  A chill would mean fever and perhaps death.”

“What a strange man!” murmured the girl.