“Kearney,” said he, “look at that roof and those walls. Can you cut me some canes and get me some of those leaves for thatching? I have been examining the thatch from the inside and it is quite simple. The leaves seem stitched to the big canes that form the beams.”
“Lord, sir,” said Kearney, “you needn’t trouble about that. I’ll do the job when I get things a bit more ship-shape; canvas would be better than them leaves, and there’s a big roll of spare canvas Captain Stanistreet left, thinkin’ I’d like to make a tent.”
“No,” said Lestrange. “I want to do this business myself. There is no hurry about it, but I would like to do it myself. You know, Kearney, all about my children and how they lived here.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kearney. “I’ve heard it from Bowers.”
“They lived here and grew up together,” went on Lestrange, “lived here in the open and in the woods the happy life that people knew before cities were built. I do not know, but I some day shall know, what fatality carried them out to sea; but I do know that shortly before it occurred they began to build that house. Why?”
Kearney, who knew the tropics better than Lestrange, had an answer on his tongue, pat, the sensible answer that maybe a storm had destroyed their first house, but he said nothing, wishing to keep clear of the subject of the children as much as possible, and Lestrange went on:
“Well, it is just my fancy, but it has come to me that they built it unconsciously, instinctively knowing that I was coming, knowing that death was approaching them, leaving it unfinished for me to finish—to complete for them—”
Kearney, distinctly uncomfortable at the turn the talk was taking, still remained mute. From what Bowers had said, and from his own observation, he knew that Lestrange was sane on every point but this. Instinct told him, or hinted to him, that craziness covered with sanity in this fashion might be a worse proposition if it burst loose than the open and general sort of craziness—like that of old Sam Fisher, with whom he had sailed years ago, a man clean cracked, yet harmless and able to do his duty. He had no fear of violence from Lestrange, but visions of the poor gentleman “dashing into the lagoon,” if crossed, made him hold his tongue.