It was a fact. As it happened, not one of the party had a scrap of linen on them, or anything that would answer the purpose. Indeed, they had only one pocket-handkerchief between them, and it was a red rag full of holes. Augusta had had one, but it had blown overboard when they were in the boat. What would they not have given for that pocket-handkerchief now! “Yes,” said Mr. Meeson, “it seems we have none. I haven’t even get a bank-note, or I might have written in blood upon that; though I have got a hundred sovereigns in gold—I grabbed them up before I bolted from the cabin. But I say—excuse me, Miss Smithers, but—um—ah—oh! hang modesty—haven’t you got some linen on, somewhere or other, that you could spare a bit of? You shan’t lose by giving it to me. There, I promise that I will tear up the agreement if ever I get out of this—which I shan’t—which I shan’t—and I will write on the linen that it is to be torn up. Yes, and that you are to have five thousand pounds legacy too, Miss Smithers. Surely you can spare me a little bit—just off the skirt, or somewhere, you know, Miss Smithers? It never will be missed, and it is so _very_ important.” Augusta blushed, and no wonder. “I am sorry to say I have nothing of the sort about me, Mr. Meeson—nothing except flannel,” she said. “I got up in the middle of the night before the collision, and there was no light in the cabin, and I put on whatever came first, meaning to come back and dress afterwards when it got light.” “Stays!” said Mr. Meeson, desperately. “Forgive me for mentioning them, but surely you put on your stays? One could write on them, you know.” “I am very sorry, Mr. Meeson,” she answered, “but I did not put any on.” “Not a cuff or a collar?” he said, catching at a last straw of hope. Augusta shook her head sadly. “Then there is an end of it!” groaned Mr. Meeson. “Eustace must lose the money. Poor lad! poor lad! I have behaved very badly to him.” Augusta stood still, racking her brain for some expedient, for she was determined that Eustace Meeson should not lose the chance of that colossal fortune if she could help it. It was but a poor chance at the best, for Mr. Meeson might not be dying, after all. And if he did die, it was probable that his fate would be their fate also, and no record would remain of them or of Mr. Meeson’s testamentary wishes. As things looked at present, there was every prospect of their all perishing miserably on that desolate shore. Just then the sailor Bill, who had been up to the flagstaff on the rock on the chance of catching sight of some passing vessel, came walking past. His flannel shirt-sleeves were rolled up to the elbows of his brawny arms, and as he stopped to speak to Augusta she noticed something that made her start, and gave her an idea. “There ain’t nothing to be seen,” said the man, roughly; “and it is my belief that there won’t be neither. Here we are, and here we stops till we dies and rots.”