I had my cigarette
supply. Once heard a botanist say that leaves of the white shore-willow
made fair substitute for tobacco. Fair substitute for nux vomica! Would
like to interview said botanist_.

"The fellow is a tobacco maniac," growled Trendon, feeling in his breast
pocket. "The devil," he cried, bringing forth an empty hand.

Silently the captain handed him a cigar. "Thank you, sir," he said,
lighted it, and continued reading.

"_June 5. Had a caller to-day. Climbed the headland this morning. Found
volcano taking a day off. Looking for sign of _Laughing Lass_, noticed
something heliographing to me from the waves beyond the reef. Seemed to be
metal. I guessed a tin can. Caught in the swirl, it rounded the cape, and
I came down to the shore to meet it. Halfway down the cliff I had a better
view. I saw it was not a tin can. There was a dark body under it, which
the waves were tossing about, and as the metal moved with the body, it
glinted in the sun. Suddenly it was borne in upon me that an arm was doing
the signalling, waving to me with a sprightly, even a jocular
friendliness. Then I saw what it really was. It was Handy Solomon and his
steel hook. He was riding quite high. Every now and again he would bow and
wave. He grounded gently on the sand beach. I planted him promptly. First,
however, I removed a bag of tobacco from his pocket. Poor stuff, and water
soaked, but still tobacco. Spent a quiet afternoon carving a headstone for
the dear departed. Pity it were that virtues so shining should be
uncommemorated. Idle as the speculation is, I wonder who my next visitor
will be. Thrackles, I hope. Evidently some of them have been playing the
part of Pandora. Spent last night in the cave. Air quite fresh.

"June 6. Saw the glow again last night."_

The surgeon paused in his reading. "That would be the night of the 5th:
the night before we picked her up empty."

"Yes," agreed Captain Parkinson. "That was the night Billy Edwards--Go
on."

"_Saw the glow again last night. Don't understand it. Once should have
been enough for them. This matter of hoarding tobacco may be a sad error.
If Old Spitfire keeps on the way she has to-day I shan't need much more.
It would be a raw jest to be burned or swallowed up with a month's supply
of unsmoked cigarettes on one. Cave getting shaky. Still, I think I'll
stick there. As between being burned alive and buried alive, I'm for the
respectable and time honoured fashion of interment