She covertly watched his preparations.  He tore a dry leaf from a notebook and broke the bullet out of a cartridge, damping the powder with water from a pitcher-plant.  Smearing the composition on the paper, he placed it in the sun, where it dried at once.  He gathered a small bundle of withered spines from the palms, and arranged the driftwood on top, choosing a place for his bonfire just within the shade.  Then, inserting the touch-paper among the spines, he unscrewed one of the lenses of the binoculars, converted it into a burning-glass, and had a fine blaze roaring merrily in a few minutes.  With the aid of pointed sticks he grilled some slices of ham, cut with his clasp-knife, which he first carefully cleaned in the earth.  The biscuits were of the variety that become soft when toasted, and so he balanced a few by stones near the fire.

Iris forgot her annoyance in her interest.  A most appetizing smell filled the air.  They were having a picnic amidst delightful surroundings.  Yesterday at this time—­she almost yielded to a rush of sentiment, but forced it back with instant determination.  Tears were a poor resource, unmindful of God’s goodness to herself and her companion.  Without the sailor what would have become of her, even were she thrown ashore while still living?  She knew none of the expedients which seemed to be at his command.  It was a most ungrateful proceeding to be vexed with him for her own thoughtless suggestion that she occupied a new role as Mrs. Crusoe.

“Can I do nothing to help?” she exclaimed.  So contrite was her tone that Jenks was astonished.

“Yes,” he said, pointing to the dish-cover.  “If you polish the top of that with your sleeve it will serve as a plate.  Luncheon is ready.”

He neatly dished up two slices of ham on a couple of biscuits and handed them to her, with the clasp-knife.

“I can depend on my fingers,” he explained.  “It will not be the first time.”

“Have you led an adventurous life?” she asked, by way of polite conversation.

“No,” he growled.

“I only thought so because you appear to know all sorts of dodges for prolonging existence—­things I never heard of.”

“Broiled ham—­and biscuits—­for instance?”

At another time Iris would have snapped at him for the retort.  Still humbly regretful for her previous attitude she answered meekly—­

“Yes, in this manner of cooking them, I mean.  But there are other items—­methods of lighting fires, finding water, knowing what fruits and other articles may be found on a desert island, such as plantains and cocoanuts, certain sorts of birds—­and beche-de-mer.”

For the life of her she could not tell why she tacked on that weird item to her list.

The sailor inquired, more civilly—­“Then you are acquainted with trepang?”

“Who?”

“Trepang—­beche-de-mer, you know.”

Iris made a desperate guess.  “Yes,” she said, demurely.  “It makes beautiful backs for hair brushes.  And it looks so nice as a frame for platinotype photographs.  I have—­”