One day when rain was falling in sheets and torrents, as it did sometimes upon the Rocas Reef, Percival turned into the log hut for shelter. Mackay was there, too; his leg had been so painful that he had not left the rude bed, which his comrades had made for him, even to be carried out into the fresh air and sunshine, for two or three days. Percival noticed the look of pain in the languid eyes, and had, for a moment, a fancy that he had seen this man before. But the burns on his face, the handkerchief tied round his head to conceal a wound on the temple, and the tangled brown beard and moustache, made it difficult to seize hold of a possible likeness. Percival threw himself on the ground with a half-sigh, and crossed his arms behind his head. "Is anything the matter?" asked Mackay. Percival noticed that he never addressed him as "Sir" or "Mr. Heron," unless the other men were present. "Jackson's ill," said Percival, curtly. Mackay started and turned on his elbow. "Ill?" "Fever, I'm afraid. Not bad; just a touch of it. He's in the other hut." "I'm sorry for that," said Mackay, lying down again. "So am I. He is the steadiest man among them. How the rain pours! Pollard is sitting with him." There was a little silence, after which Percival spoke again. "Are you keeping count of the days? How long is it since we landed?" "Sixteen days." "Is that all? I thought it had been longer." "You were anxious to get to your journey's end, I suppose," said the steerage passenger, after a little hesitation. "Aren't we all anxious? Do we want to stay here for ever?" And then there was another pause, which ended by Percival's saying, in a tone of subdued irritation: "There are few of our party that have the same reasons that I have for wishing myself on the way back to England." "You are not going to stay in South America, then?" "Not I. There is someone I want to find; that's all." "A man?" "Yes, a man. I thought that he had sailed in the _Falcon_; but I suppose I was mistaken." "And if you don't find him?" "I must hunt the world over until I do. I won't go back to England without him, if he's alive." "Friend or enemy?" said Mackay, fixing his eyes on Percival's face with a look of interest. At any other time Percival might have resented the question: here, in the log hut, with a tempest roaring and the rain streaming outside, and the great stormy sea as a barrier between the dwellers on the island and the rest of the civilised world, such questions and answers seemed natural enough. "Enemy," said Percival, sharply. It was evident that some hidden sense of wrong had sprung suddenly to the light, and perhaps amazed him by its strength, for he began immediately to explain away his answer. "Hum! not that exactly. But not a friend." "And you want to do him an injury!" said Mackay, with grave consideration.