I moved as swiftly as I dared, making no noise, nor looked behind me until I reached the rocks under the cliff—­the path by which Mr. Goodfellow had crept round to scuttle the boat.

I calculated that by working my way along for fifty yards between them and the rock-face I should gain an opening which, observed from below, had seemed to promise me an excellent view of the next beach.  But they hung so heavily that I found myself struggling in an almost impenetrable thicket; and when at length I gained the opening, and drew breath, above the splash of waves on the beach I heard a sound which caused me to huddle back like a rabbit surprised in the mouth of its burrow.

Some three yards from my hiding the bank of low cliff bounding the beach shelved upward and inland in a stretch of short turf, and from the head of this slope came the thud of footsteps—­of heavy footsteps descending closer and closer.

I drew back under the creepers, and held my breath.  Between their thick woven strands my eyes caught only, to the right, a twinkle of the sea; in front, a yard or two of white shingle glittering beyond the green shade; and, five seconds later, this patch was blotted out as two men plunged past my spyhole.  They walked abreast, and carried a box between them.  I could hear them panting, so closely they passed.

They halted on the edge of the bank.

“The boat’s all right,” said one; and I heard him jump down upon the shingle.  It seemed to me that I knew his voice.  “Here, pass down the blamed thing . . . d—­n it all, man!”

“I can’t!” whimpered the other.  “S’help me, Bill, I can’t. . . .  I’m not used to it, and I ain’t got the nerve.”

“Nerve?  An’ you call yourself a seaman!  An’ a plucky lot you boasted the night we signed articles. . . .  Nerve?  Why, you was the very man to find fault with him.  ’Couldn’t stand his temper another day,’ you said; and must do something desprit.  Those were your very words.”

“I know it.  I didn’t think—­”

“Oh, to hell with your ‘didn’t think’!  The man’s dead, an’ cryin’ won’t bring him back.  Much you’d welcome him, if he did come back!”

“Don’t, Bill!”

“Now, look you here, Jim Lucky!  Stand you up, and help me get this lot in the boat, and the boat to sea.  After that you can lie quiet and cry yourself sick. . . .  You’ll be all right to-morrow, fit as a fiddle.  I’ve been in this business before, and seen how it takes men, even the strongest.  It’s the sight o’ blood; but the stomach gets accustomed. . . .  By this day week you’ll be lively as a flea in a rug, and lookin’ forward to drivin’ in your carriage-an’-pair.  I promise you that; but what you’ve to do at this moment is to stand up, and help me get down the boat.  For if he’s anywhere on this island, God help the pair of us!”

“He!” quavered Jim Lucky.

“I shouldn’t wonder.”