“No, but I should think they might make balloons or airplanes,” replied Tom.
“’Twould be more appropriate,” agreed Rawlins, “but instead they make boats! Carry the lumber up that stairway--it’s called ‘The Ladder’--build the boats in the crater and lower ’em over the mountain side just as if they were launching ’em from a ship.”
“Oh, you’re just kidding us!” declared Tom, “That’s too big a yarn!”
“True, nevertheless,” his father, who had drawn near, assured him. “I’ve heard of it before.”
“’Course it’s true!” avowed the diver. “And there are a lot of other blamed funny things about Saba that are true. All the folks keep their coffins in their houses and look after ’em just like the other furniture and most of the young men are sailors. I know two or three who are mates of big transatlantic liners. And the town’s so high up they can grow potatoes and strawberries and such things there.”
“But who do they sell them to?” asked Frank.
“Take ’em over to St. Kitts mostly,” Rawlins told him.
“Well, I’d like to go there,” declared Tom. “Don’t you suppose they saw the airplane? If they’re so high up, they might have got a good view of it.”
“Sure they might,” agreed Rawlins. “But if they did, the folks on Statia did too, and it’s no easy job landing at Saba--no dock or harbor--just a tiny strip of pebbly beach among the rocks. It’s impossible to go ashore if there’s any sea running.”
“I call that too bad!” said Frank. “I suppose there’s nothing very odd or interesting about Statia.”