The project met with general approval. The only thing that remained to be settled was who should stay behind. Even by taxing the boat to its fullest capacity, consistent with safety, at least three of them would have to remain on the island. It was decided to settle that question by casting lots, and Captain Peters placed a number of slips of paper in a hat. On all but three of the slips there was a cross; the others were blank. There was an air of anxiety about the crew as they clustered round the skipper to pick their chance. Although the long trip in the boat would be attended with much hardship and considerable danger, everybody there preferred that to remaining marooned. Hopeless though it had seemed with the whole crew there, the prospect of being left with only two companions was regarded as considerably worse. Captain Peters took the first slip out of the hat and grunted with satisfaction. Although the men would have preferred to have him with them on the trip, he had shared in the casting of lots. Dave watched the men’s faces with curious interest as each dipped a hand into the hat. Some did so with a jest; others grabbed a folded paper eagerly, opening it in a feverish fashion. The first one to draw a blank was the carpenter. “Well,” he said, forcing a smile, “I’ll get you to take a message for my wife and kids, sir.” Dave’s fingers trembled a shade when his turn came. There was no cross on his paper. The third blank was drawn by a stolid Kanaka fireman, who shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing. He was an islander by birth, and the idea of being marooned did not seem so very terrible to him. Dave looked at the colored fireman and the carpenter, and wondered how long they were to be his companions on that lonely isle. Once this ordeal was over, the men set to work enthusiastically, preparing the boat for its journey. She was not built for sailing, but a mast, jib-boom, and cleats were soon rigged. When ready she was taken for a short trial-trip, and Captain Peters reported that she was good for any distance in fair weather. Provisions and water to last three weeks, with care, were placed on board, and the castaways clambered into the boat while a steady easterly breeze was blowing. The Kanaka sat on a rock, digging his bare toes into the silvery sand and looking utterly unmoved by these proceedings. “Good-by, lads,” said the skipper. “Don’t get into mischief or spend all your money. You won’t be here very long if we make Fiji all right. I’ll pass the word along to the first trading-boat bound this way, and they’ll pick you up. Come on, Tempest, get in.” “I’m not going,” said Tempest, lighting his pipe and squatting comfortably on the sand. “I’ve taken rather a fancy to the scenery around here. You take the lad in my place.” “I’m very much obliged to you, Tempest,” Dave said, looking his friend squarely in the eyes, “but I can’t do that. We all picked our slips fairly, and I was unlucky, that’s all.”