“Simplest thing in the world,” said Bobbie, tossing his shoes to one side and peeling off his socks. “All the Indians around these parts know that San Moros is bad medicine for a native. I never thought much about it, but I’ll bet on it now, that it was those same old smugglers. Probably they murdered some Indians there to prevent their going off and telling of the place, or something like that. I never heard of the Island, but I have heard the Indians say numbers of times that people who go in to camp there never come out again. They think the farther shores are inhabited by some style of devil or hobgoblin, and I remember now I have heard them saying that in the last few years they have seen devil fires burning there.”
“Devil fires!” said Delbert helplessly, dropping his hands to his sides. “Devil fires!”
“Your camp-fires, of course,” returned Bobbie; “but if those fellows in the canoes that you tried to go out and intercept,—if they saw you at all,—that would be explanation enough of why they put up their sails and put off as fast as they could.”
To the mother waiting on that far-off mortgaged farm, a message went out that night, the last one sent from the office. It contained eight words, and it was followed by a fat, fat letter the next day, which explained that it in turn was to be followed by a party of six just as soon as certain absolutely necessary sewing could be done.
But, after all, the telegram contained the heart of the matter, the sunshine of the whole wide world and part of that of the next world, all on a piece of yellow paper. At least, Mrs. Hadley thought so when she tore it open and read:—
“All found alive and well on Smugglers’ Island.”
THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A