bound my wrists. The
edge of the shell was also brittle, and I broke it by bearing too
heavily upon it. Then I rolled back to the heap and returned with as
many shells as I could carry in both hands. I broke many shells, cut
my hands a number of times, and got cramps in my legs from my strained
position and my exertions.

While I was suffering from the cramps, and resting, I heard the
familiar halloo drift across the water. It was Charley, searching for
me. The gag in my mouth prevented me from replying, and I could only
lie there, helplessly fuming, while he rowed past the island and his
voice slowly lost itself in the distance.

I returned to the sawing process, and at the end of half an hour
succeeded in severing the rope. The rest was easy. My hands once free,
it was a matter of minutes to loosen my legs and to take the gag out
of my mouth. I ran around the island to make sure it _was_ an island
and not by chance a portion of the mainland. An island it certainly
was, one of the Marin group, fringed with a sandy beach and surrounded
by a sea of mud. Nothing remained but to wait till daylight and to
keep warm; for it was a cold, raw night for California, with just
enough wind to pierce the skin and cause one to shiver.

To keep up the circulation, I ran around the island a dozen times or
so, and clambered across its rocky backbone as many times more--all of
which was of greater service to me, as I afterward discovered, than
merely to warm me up. In the midst of this exercise I wondered if I
had lost anything out of my pockets while rolling over and over in the
sand. A search showed the absence of my revolver and pocket-knife. The
first Yellow Handkerchief had taken; but the knife had been lost in
the sand.

I was hunting for it when the sound of rowlocks came to my ears. At
first, of course, I thought of Charley; but on second thought I knew
Charley would be calling out as he rowed along. A sudden premonition
of danger seized me. The Marin Islands are lonely places; chance
visitors in the dead of night are hardly to be expected. What if it
were Yellow Handkerchief? The sound made by the rowlocks grew more
distinct. I crouched in the sand and listened intently. The boat,
which I judged a small skiff from the quick stroke of the oars, was
landing in the mud about fifty yards up the beach. I heard a raspy,
hacking cough, and my heart stood still. It was Yellow Handkerchief.
Not to be robbed of his revenge by his mor