“Why, the place is all shut up and looks practically deserted,” said Bob.
“Except for the person waving at that window,” added Ben. “Hark! he is shouting again. Let us descend to the river bank.”
No demonstration of any kind greeted their exposing themselves to full view from the island. At first it looked as though they would have to swim over. Then Bob discovered a light canoe hidden in among some high reeds. He and Ben got into the craft and paddled over to the island.
As they approached the log structure at its center, it suggested to them more of a fort than ever. It was built solidly, had port holes here and there in its sides, and marks in the logs showed where at some time or other musket balls and even larger projectiles had evidently assailed its staunch timbers from the mainland.
“No one seems to be moving about,” said Bob. “Even that man in the cellar has got out of sight.”
They walked about the building until they came to a door letting into the cellar. This was protected with a simple hasp and bolt. Ben opened the door, Bob followed him into the cellar.
A somewhat remarkable sight greeted them. Seated on a sawbench with an upturned barrel before him was a man dressed in aviator costume. He had a comb and some other toilet articles on the barrel. With these he was arranging tangled disordered beard and hair. He tidied up a very much neglected collar and tie. He waxed his long mustachios with a stick of cosmetic.
“Gentlemen, I welcome!” he cried, and with graceful agility he sprang to his feet and made a bow like that of some courtier. Something jangled as he did this, and quick-sighted Bob exclaimed in dismay:
“Ben, one foot is secured to a log chain running to that center post.”
“Who are you?” began Ben, but guessing.