He pondered these matters as he ate, spinning out his exiguous meal to
its uttermost crumb to make it as satisfying as possible.
He saw his way at once to perfecting his cover. All about him where he
sat, the grey rock pushed through a thin friable soil like the bones of
an ill-buried skeleton. And everywhere in the scanty soil grew thick
little rounded cushions, half grass, half moss, varying in size from an
apple to a foot-stool, which came out whole at a pluck or a kick. After
breakfast he would plug up every hole in his shelter, and pile
half-a-dozen sizeable pieces outside with which to close the front door.
Then, if he could find anything in the shape of fuel, he saw his way to
a dinner of fried bacon, but it would have to be after dark when the
smoke would be invisible.
But first he must find out about his water supply.
Down at the south end, Nance had said. That must be over there, on that
almost-detached stack of rocks, where the waves seemed to break loudest.
So, after another crawl up to the ridge to make certain that no boats
were about--for he had frequently seen them fishing in the neighbourhood
of L'Etat--he crept down the flank of his pyramid almost to sea-level to
get across to the outer pile.
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