“Any danger of starving?” questioned Caradoc, staring moth-like at the blinding disc of flame.
“Perhaps not,” meditated Madden. “I've been thinking about it. As a last resort this seaweed is edible, at any rate certain species of it. The Chinese and Japanese eat it, but that isn't much of a recommendation to a European. Then the water is full of fish that come to nibble at the stuff.”
Caradoc was obviously inattentive to this consoling information. “Yes,” he murmured politely, “Japanese do nibble at the fish.”
Madden looked around at his abstracted friend, who was still staring into the molten sunrise.
“When the Japanese come to nibble at the fish, we might get some food from them,” suggested Madden with American delight in the ridiculous.
“Perhaps so.”
“And fans, parasols, and little ivory curios—souvenirs of the Sargasso, when we roll up the dock and take it home.”
Smith nodded soberly, still gazing.
