Frank gazed for a moment in silence. Then he gasped:
“But our small boat’s gone.”
“And so is the Gull!” fairly shouted the younger lad as he waved his hand toward the place where it had been anchored. “That man has taken it and gone off! We’re marooned on Cliff Island!”
CHAPTER XXV
A LUCKY QUARREL
Frank stared uncomprehendingly toward the slowly-heaving waters of the bay.
“I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed. “The Gull must be somewhere else. We’re at the wrong place.”
“I only wish we were,” spoke Andy dubiously. “But you can see for yourself that this is where we camped. Here is where our small boat was pulled up on shore, where we slept under it, and, if you want any better evidence—here’s grub! Grub, Frank do you hear? We shan’t starve, even if we are marooned!”
He raced to a clump of scrub bushes some distance up on shore and began pulling out boxes and tins.
“Good!” shouted Frank. “I never was so hungry before in my life. Now if we could only make a fire!”
But that was out of the question. Every bit of driftwood, of which there was a big supply, was soaking wet. The boys had plenty of matches, in waterproof boxes, but they would be useless until some dry fuel was available.