By this time the rest of the temporary sojourners on the island were astir. From his lofty point of vantage Peter could see the three Mohammedans at their devotions at some distance from the tents. Mrs. Shallop was actually out and about, and had deigned to fetch a balerful of water. Miss Baird had thrown fresh driftwood and kelp on the fire, and was apparently undertaking the frying of some of the fish. Propped up on a roll of painted canvas was Preston, slowly and steadily gutting the herrings before grilling them in front of the fire. "Hello, old man!" exclaimed Peter, when he rejoined the others and had greeted Miss Baird. "Feeling better?" "Much thanks," replied the Acting Chief. "Soon be O.K., I hope. And what have you been doing, Sparks?" "Taking my bearings," said Mostyn. "My festive chum, I've made a hash of things. We're on an island." "Madagascar is an island," remarked Preston. "So why make a song about it?" "This isn't Madagascar," replied Peter. "It's a small island. A fellow ought to be able to walk right round it in a couple of hours comfortably." Preston tried to whistle and failed miserably. The attempt was still too painful. "You seem fond of putting boats ashore on small islands, old man," he remarked. "How about grub? Seen anything in the edible line?" "A few coco-palms," announced Mostyn. "I didn't investigate. We may strike oil." "I'd rather strike grub," rejoined the Acting Chief. "Well, there's one blessing--we've cigarettes." Breakfast consisted of biscuits, fresh water, and fried fish. It was meagre fare, but the hungry castaways relished it. They could have eaten more, but Peter kept an iron hand on the biscuits, and fried fish without biscuits was neither satisfying nor appetizing. The meal over, Mostyn set all hands--Preston excepted, by reason of his injuries--to work. He meant to keep everybody employed--even Mrs. Shallop. Idleness breeds discontent and discord, and he had no wish to have either. The first task was to carry the tents and the small kit at their disposal to the high ground beyond the edge of the cliffs. Peter and the lascars managed the spars and canvas between them, while Olive and Mrs. Shallop carried up the lighter gear. Once she made up her mind that she had to work, Mrs. Shallop became quite energetic, finding her way up the cliff-path with tolerable speed in spite of her bulk. By ten in the morning the whole of the stuff brought ashore had been taken to a spot a hundred and fifty feet above the sea-level, and placed in a sheltered hollow within easy distance of the little stream that Peter had discovered. While the two Lascars were setting up the tents, Peter and Mahmed constructed a stretcher in order to get Preston to the new camp.