In the end Stew decided that it would be wise to put the Jap raft into condition for immediate escape, if flight became necessary. “Who knows what might happen?” he argued. “If those men speak German, they could easily be Nazis, and they may bring in a whole boatload of Japs to hunt us down.” Jack was not so sure of all this. Those men in charge of the jet plane had been friendly enough and did not seem like Nazis. Nevertheless he did realize that it was best to be prepared for any emergency. So, after a rather cheerless breakfast of cold fish and coffee, they spent the morning putting the raft in order. When they returned at lunchtime, they found that the bananas had not yet begun to ripen, so they lunched on chocolate bars. “But just you wait!” Stew exclaimed. “I’m going to have a real dinner tonight, if I have to run down a wild pig.” “Okay,” Jack agreed. “I’ll gladly join you. In fact, I’ll even roast the pig. But you’d better take the fishline with you. There are worse meals than fish.” “Oh, fish!” Stew snorted. “Just you wait and see!” However, he did take the fishline as they climbed up the slope for one more look at their island home. “I’ll charm one of those wild roosters into sitting on my knee,” Jack laughed, as he tucked the violin under his arm. “Or some wild maiden,” Stew joked. “None of that!” Jack replied, soberly. Stew paused half way up the ridge to examine some fresh wild pig tracks, but Jack kept straight on, until he reached the crest of the ridge. There, seated on the highest pinnacle of rock, he surveyed the scene, and was enchanted. Save for a few white clouds, the day was clear. On the dark, blue water there was a slight ripple that made it seem alive. Off to the right and lower down he suddenly discovered the small native village, a few tiny grass huts clustered about a larger one. As he watched, two long, slender canoes with outriggers shot from the shore. He looked at them through his binoculars and discovered that one was manned by two native boys, the other by two native girls. As the paddles flashed and the canoes sped away in a wild race, he thought, if things should get worse here, those people could take us to the next island, or elsewhere. He glanced away to the south. It couldn’t be more than ten miles to that next island. At last, charmed by the scene that lay before him, he took up his violin and began to play. He had once supposed that much of the music he had known might by this time have escaped him, but now, in this moment of rest and inspiration, they all came back to him—“Londonderry Air,” “Ave Maria,” “O Sole Mio,” and many others. How long he played, he could not tell. Had he paused to listen as he played, he might have heard movements in the brush directly beneath him. The snapping of a twig, the swish of a branch, even the low murmur of a voice might have reached his keen ears. At last, with a sigh, he replaced the violin in its case.