It was all splendidly mysterious, and exciting, and brave, and good. Overhead the skies were powdered with stars, and when they drew in their paddles and drifted, the two adventurers could see the reflections of a myriad of scintillating worlds mirrored in the dark waters of the Broadstream.
The island for which the boys were bound was about three or four acres in area. On one side of it the Broadstream ran deep and narrow. The other arm was wider and shallow and gradually choking up with lilies and water weeds.
On the island, primeval scrub grew in almost impenetrable thickness, and as the place had the reputation of being alive with snakes, it was seldom visited.
Tom Pagdin had swum across on the deep side one day and made a few investigations.
The centre of the island was occupied by an immense fig tree, a patriarch of unknown age, whose roots were a study in floral architecture. To the butt of this fig clung immense vines, which made a natural covering. The sky was only visible in patches here and there.
Tom had found a track through the jungle to this tree—a track which was apparently possible only to bandicoots or paddymelons—a track which wound in and out of lawyer vines, rattans, and the thousand and one spiked and clinging growths of the Northern scrubs.
The roots of the fig formed an excellent hiding-place. It was there that the runaways had decided to make a temporary camp.
The boys landed their bundles, pulled the boat up again to their original starting-place, tied her to the log, left her hidden among the reeds and started to trudge back.
They headed the creek, crossed out through the grass paddocks, where the dairy cows were grazing, skirted the maize and sugar-cane patches until they arrived at the last farm opposite the island. Then Tom stopped.