The path was well beaten and he wondered who used it so much. Obviously someone lived on the island most of the year, possibly all year around, though Don could not imagine anyone living on the bleak waste in the wintertime. He wondered why there was no boat to be seen, since the inhabitants must have a boat. It would be impossible otherwise to get across to the mainland for supplies, and no one could live for any length of time on the place without renewing supplies from time to time. Possibly the boat was on the other side of the island. He knew that it would have to be a good-sized boat, too, for no rowboat or small power boat would do. But as the map had showed the island to be a large-sized one, he wondered why the people who lived at the house kept a boat on the far side of the island, especially as there was such a perfectly good harbor on this side.
He followed the path through a dense growth of trees and small shrubbery, finding that it had been worn down by many feet. The ground had been worn down hard and there was no sign of cluttering grass. Admitting that a rather large family lived in the house just ahead, he wondered why they went so often to the beach as to keep in perfect order a path through the undergrowth.
The path dipped slightly and then wound up a small hill, and at length he saw before him the low house. Before going any further he stopped to study it. It was old, built of boards that looked rough and weatherbeaten, and if it had ever had a coat of paint on it, the fact was not evident now. One crooked chimney stood unsteadily at the back. The windows of the upper floor had all been broken and were boarded up, but those on the ground floor were, for the most part, whole. The glass was dirty and the frames warped and bent. Don walked nearer, looking closely for signs of life about the place.
The front door was boarded up, and he saw at once that he could not get in there. A rotting front porch sprawled across the width of the house, and one corner of the roof was falling down. Don took a path around the house, looking closely to see if anyone was around, but there was no sign of movement in the place. But he felt sure that someone lived in the place, for a thin line of smoke drifted upward from the crooked chimney.
The back yard of the house was an overgrown plot, with a few rotting outhouses standing near the dense woods that pressed close to the place. Don stepped on the low porch and knocked gently. While he waited, he turned once more and looked around him. It struck him that there was not a sign of a chicken about the property, and he felt that his journey for eggs would be useless.
“Nothing like trying, though,” he thought, and knocked again. There was no response, and he was inclined to think that there was no one at home. But just then the tempting odor of bacon assailed his nose.
“Surely there is someone at home,” he decided. “No one would leave the house and allow bacon to fry on the stove. I wonder why they——”
He heard a bolt rattle on the inside of the door and it slowly opened. At first the interior of the place seemed so dark that he could not make out the person of the one who had opened the door. Then he saw that it was an old woman, with a severe face and untidy white hair.
“What do you want?” she asked, somewhat harshly.
“Pardon me,” Don said politely, “but I’d like to know if you have any eggs for sale? I just came from a boat which we have anchored in the cove, and I thought that you might have some eggs you could sell us.”