He disappeared once more, and Carey and Bostock stood looking at one another on the sandy sh.o.r.e.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"What's that here mean as the doctor said, sir?" growled Bostock, when the last rustle of the growth made by their companion died out.

"Till you see me again," said Carey.

"Why couldn't he say it in plain English so as a man could understand him?"

"Don't know," said Carey, shortly. "Ask him when he comes back."

Bostock chuckled and shook his head.

"I'd a deal rather we'd kep' together, sir," he said; "but I dessay he knows best. So we've got to wait six hours--six hours' watch, and we mustn't go very far away. Well, it's a very pretty place, and the sand's soft, and I mean to have some of them cocoanuts by-and-by."

"How are you going to get at them?" said Carey, looking up at the trees.

"I suppose I mustn't try to climb one."

"Not likely."

"Well, I don't believe you could."

"Dunno," said the old fellow. "I'm thinking I can if I uses a sort o'

stirrup."

"What's that?"

"I'll show you bime-by. Well, what shall we do?"

"I'm going to get out on one of those coral rocks and have a good look at the pools of water and the things in them. Perhaps collect some sh.e.l.ls."

"Why not?" said Bostock. "I've got the bucket yonder, and one of the axes. We might collect a lot to take on board, and the oysters'll do for soup."

"Oh, you mean the pearl sh.e.l.ls."

"Yes; didn't you, sir?"

"No, I meant any kind: but let's try for some of those big sh.e.l.ls and open them. We may find some pearls."

"That's right, Master Carey, and when you're tired o' that look here."

He gave the boy a knowing look, and took a roll of long stout line out of one pocket, a leaden weight and a cork stuck full of fish-hooks out of the other.

"Fishing-tackle," cried Carey, eagerly.

"That's right. When we've got some oysters for bait we'll get out on the raft again, shove her off to the end of that bit of a ca.n.a.l, and try after a fish."

"Oh, we're not going to be dull," cried Carey, eagerly.

"Dull, not us; why, it'll be six hours before we know where we are.

Come on."

The old sailor went back to the nearest spot to the raft, carefully examined the rope, which was fastened round a block of coral, and then waded out to the rough construction and returned with the bucket and a small axe.

"Now then," he said; "you keep here where it's dry, and I'll go and see what I can find."

He had little seeking to do, merely to wade amongst the fragments of coral and pick up pair after pair of the great molluscs, which he had no difficulty in detaching; and before long he had a score, which he carried to a spot on the rock which seemed suitable.

"You feel what a weight they are," he said, and Carey took up a couple which were about the size of pudding plates.

"They are heavy," cried Carey. "Why, you could soon collect a ton."

"Dessay I could, sir; but do you know the best way to open 'em?"

"Force a knife in between the sh.e.l.ls."

"And break the knife," said the old sailor, chuckling. "No, there's a better way than that. Lay 'em out in the sun away from the water, and they soon open their mouths and gape."

"But then they die and go bad."

"That's right, sir; they do, and smell lovely. That's the way to do it best."

"But you can't eat bad oysters."

"Not likely, sir. I'm going to open these with the axe, and after we've felt whether they've got any pearls in 'em we shall put the soft fish in the bucket of clean water and take 'em back for cooking. Here goes.

I've seen how it's done before now."

He took one of the oysters, laid it in a particular way upon the rock, gave it a smart blow over the muscular hinge, and then, taking advantage of the half-paralysed mollusc, he managed to get the edge of the axe between the sh.e.l.ls, wriggled it about a little, and then, mastering the opposition offered by the singular creature within, he wrenched the two sh.e.l.ls apart and used his knife to sc.r.a.pe out the flesh of the oyster, felt it well over and then thrust it into the bucket, which he half filled with the clear water.

"How many pearls?" said Carey.

"Not one, sir."

"I thought not. But I say, Bob, that's a precious nasty job."

"Not it, sir. I don't mind. Done worse than this."

"And the oyster looks horribly messy."

"It won't when it's made into soup. But I say, nice sh.e.l.ls, aren't they?"

"Beautiful," said Carey, who was examining them. "So these are to cut up for mother-o'-pearl?"

"Yes, sir, and to make shirt b.u.t.tons."

Bang! a wrench with the axe, and another fat oyster was cut out and the sh.e.l.ls cast aside, before a fresh search was made for pearls, but without result.