After a time he imagined he ought to see the bay from the top of the bank, and telling Macallister where he was going, he went up the slope. The climb was laborious, and at the top he stopped for breath and shaded his eyes from the level rays. The sun was near the Atlantic and in its track the water was red; the broken ground about him shone like copper. Outside the crimson reflections, the sea was wrinkled and marked by thin white lines where the long rollers broke. The strong light hurt his dazzled eyes, and with a vague sense of disturbance he turned his head. When he looked again he could see the end of the point and the anchorage, but _Cayman_ was gone.
Kit felt slack and sat down in the sand. He could not see all the bay, but a vessel could only anchor at one spot and _Cayman_ was not there. Kit had got a very bad jolt. The food and water would hardly last for another day, the coast was an arid desert, and he did not think he could reach the camp the Berbers had left. He did not know if he hoped _Cayman_ had been blown ashore, but if she were wrecked, the crew might have saved some stores. A mile or two farther on one ought to see the beach from the top of ground that now broke his view, and he was anxious to get there, but went down slowly. He must be cool and not alarm the others yet.
At the bottom he joined Macallister, who had waited and gave him a keen glance.
"_Cayman_'s not riding in the pool," Kit replied.
Macallister was quiet for a moment or two. Then he said. "We have half a gallon o' smelling water, and there are eight o' us! As a rule, I ha' no' much use for water, but I mind when we broke the condensing plant on a coolie pilgrim boat. Ye could not fill your tanks at every coaling station then. I got some water from the hot well; tasting o' copper and grease. We fed the boilers from the sea and drove her, with funnel flaming and tubes caked wi' salt. Iron burns, ye ken, unless it's clean, and I thought the softening furnaces would blow down. She was crowded fore an' aft wi' sweating, gasping coolies, and we let her gang. When we made port I swallowed maist a gallon o' lemonade, claret and ice. Man, I hear the ice tinkling against the pail!"
"To talk about it makes one thirsty and we mustn't be thirsty yet," Kit remarked, frowning. "Say nothing to the others. We'll push on for the ridge."