“I reckon,” he said, directing his remarks toward no one in particular, “that we’ve all been rather hasty in this matter, being het up as we were with the strain of what we been through an’ so it seems to me, takin’ into consideration that Mr. Theriere really done his best to save the ship, an’ that as a matter of fact we was all mighty lucky to come out of it alive, that we’d better let bygones be bygones, for the time bein’ at least, an’ all of us pitch in to save what we can from the wreckage, hunt water, rig up a camp, an’ get things sort o’ shipshape here instid o’ squabblin’ amongst ourselves.”

“Suit yourself,” said Theriere, “it’s all the same to us,” and his use of the objective pronoun seemed definitely to establish the existence of his faction as a separate and distinct party.

Simms, from years of experience with his astute mate, was wont to acquiesce in anything that Ward proposed, though he had not the brains always to appreciate the purposes that prompted Ward’s suggestions.  Now, therefore, he nodded his approval of Squint Eye’s proposal, feeling that whatever was in Ward’s mind would be more likely to work out to Skipper Simms’ interests than some unadvised act of Skipper Simms himself.

“Supposin’,” continued Ward, “that we let two o’ your men an’ two o’ ourn under Mr. Divine, shin up them cliffs back o’ the cove an’ search fer water an’ a site fer camp—­the rest o’ us’ll have our hands full with the salvage.”

“Good,” agreed Theriere.  “Miller, you and Swenson will accompany Mr. Divine.”

Ward detailed two of his men, and the party of five began the difficult ascent of the cliffs, while far above them a little brown man with beady, black eyes set in narrow fleshy slits watched them from behind a clump of bushes.  Strange, medieval armor and two wicked-looking swords gave him a most warlike appearance.  His temples were shaved, and a broad strip on the top of his head to just beyond the crown.  His remaining hair was drawn into an unbraided queue, tied tightly at the back, and the queue then brought forward to the top of the forehead.  His helmet lay in the grass at his feet.  At the nearer approach of the party to the cliff top the watcher turned and melted into the forest at his back.  He was Oda Yorimoto, descendant of a powerful daimio of the Ashikaga Dynasty of shoguns who had fled Japan with his faithful samurai nearly three hundred and fifty years before upon the overthrow of the Ashikaga Dynasty.

Upon this unfrequented and distant Japanese isle the exiles had retained all of their medieval military savagery, to which had been added the aboriginal ferocity of the head-hunting natives they had found there and with whom they had intermarried.  The little colony, far from making any advances in arts or letters had, on the contrary, relapsed into primeval ignorance as deep as that of the natives with whom they had cast their lot—­only in their arms and armor,