Two dozen eggs were brought by Herbert.

The reporter leaning up in a corner, watched these preparations without saying anything.

A threefold thought weighed on his mind.

Was Cyrus still alive?
If he was alive, where was he?
If he had survived from his fall, how was it that he had not found some means of making known his existence?
As to Neb, he was roaming about the shore.
He was like a body without a soul.
Pencroft knew fifty ways of cooking eggs, but this time he had no choice, and was obliged to content himself with roasting them under the hot cinders.

In a few minutes the cooking was done, and the seaman invited the reporter to take his share of the supper.