nly be inhabited. I am surprised this one is not."

He ended abruptly. They were losing time. Before Iris could join him he
was already hauling a large undamaged case out of the water.

He laughed unmirthfully. "Champagne!" he said, "A good brand, too!"

This man was certainly an enigma. Iris wrinkled her pretty forehead in
the effort to place him in a fitting category. His words and accent
were those of an educated gentleman, yet his actions and manners were
studiously uncouth when he thought she was observing him. The veneer of
roughness puzzled her. That he was naturally of refined temperament she
knew quite well, not alone by perception but by the plain evidence of
his earlier dealings with her. Then why this affectation of coarseness,
this borrowed aroma of the steward's mess and the forecastle?

To the best of her ability she silently helped in the work of salvage.
They made a queer collection. A case of champagne, and another of
brandy. A box of books. A pair of night glasses. A compass. Several
boxes of ship's biscuits, coated with salt, but saved by their
hardness, having been immersed but a few seconds. Two large cases of
hams in equally good condition. Some huge dish-covers. A bit of twisted
ironwork, and a great quantity of cordage and timber.

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, firm