"I think we'd better go," said Pete. "A man on that nearest yacht seems to be trying to answer us with a pair of wigwag flags. You didn't happen to be telegraphing him anything, did you?"
Mary squealed and began scrambling up the rocks.
"You'd better let me take the lead," he said. "I know the way. Follow close behind me and do whatever I do. If I flop down on my stomach, you flop. If I duck behind a tree, you duck. If I run, run."
"And if we get caught?" she asked.
"That's one thing we won't permit. Don't suggest it. Take to the water again, if it comes to that."
The ledge of rock along which they picked their way ended at a grassy bluff, where there was a grove of small evergreens. In among the trees Pete paused to look and listen. Then he beckoned her to follow. Dusk was thicker in the grove, and Mary felt more comfortable in its added security, although she hoped it would not be long before they came to the land of promised raiment. Pete moved stealthily and she imitated his caution.
They skirted along close to the edge of the bluff, keeping within the shelter of the evergreens. Through a vista she glimpsed a house, and pointed, but Pete shook his head. Evidently it was not the right one. Presently they arrived at a tall, thickly grown hedge.
He got down on all fours in front of it, thrust his head into an opening and, with a series of cautious wriggles, began to disappear from her sight. When he had completely vanished, Mary undertook to follow him. The hedge was rough and stiff, and the aperture through which he had passed was uncomfortably small. With head and shoulders through, she looked up and found him beckoning.
"It scratches awfully," she whispered.
"S-sh! Never mind the scratches."