“Oh, I’ve been cheered up for the best part of an hour,” said Tempest. “I heard you and Jim yelling the top of your heads off, but the wind was in the wrong direction for you to hear me shouting back. I knew you’d roll up sooner or later. Sorry to give you so much trouble. Jim, you’re as strong as a rhinoceros, if not so good-looking. If there isn’t any sign of a taxicab, would you mind giving me a pickaback as far as our little dump, and I’ll promise never to call you an ugly old sinner again?” Without a word the Kanaka stooped, and Tempest scrambled onto his back. He winced once or twice as they traveled over uneven ground, for, in spite of his cheerfulness, his ankle was very painful. Tireless as a horse, Jim carried him all the way, and deposited him gently at the camp, where Dave assumed the rôle of doctor. It was now his turn to apply a cold compress, but the sprain had been a severe one, and the swelling did not go down appreciably for three days. While the patient was lying resting his injury he and Dave had a long talk on the possibility of their being picked up. Five weeks had elapsed since the crew of the ill-fated _Manihiki_ set sail. It was only possible to speculate, of course, as to what had happened to the small craft. There had been no very rough weather on the island, but that was not much to go by, as a terrific storm might sweep by within fifty miles and never be noticed where they were. “It is a little early to get impatient, yet,” Tempest commented. “If they have all been sunk, we may be left here till we have beards down to our knees, and not a soul would be the wiser; but we can safely wait three months before making up our minds for that sort of thing.” “I suppose we couldn’t possibly try to make the trip in our dory?” Dave suggested. “There’s no law against it,” Tempest said, “but you don’t catch this child trying the experiment. You remember what happened not long ago when you and Jim were out fishing and the wind got up a bit. And you were practically under the shelter of this island all the time. You can imagine what it would be like if a regular gale hit that cockleshell.” “Well, couldn’t we build a boat?” “I’ve thought of that. But it’s a big undertaking, you know, and I never made anything out of wood but a dog-kennel. I’m game to try, though, if you like. It’ll amuse us if it does nothing else. Let us start by giving her a name. What are you going to call this wonderful craft? How will the _Mud Turtle_ do?” “That’ll do finely,” said the boy. “We will start on her as soon as you can walk.”