“Perhaps he doesn’t know you,” suggested Chet.
“That’s possible. I remember now. He was in Europe at the time of the car-stealing affair.”
“Perhaps this chap isn’t Mr. Jefferson at all,” put in Joe. “He may have sold the island.”
“Well, whoever he is, I don’t think much of him. What did he think we were going to do? Burn down his cabin?”
Chet laughed. “I guess he doesn’t want his nice, pretty island all tracked up. Well, I suppose there’s nothing for us but to go home. It’s getting late, anyway.”
The boys scrambled into the ice-boat. Before they started off, however, Frank looked back up against the lonely cabin, silhouetted at the top of the cliff against the dreary winter sky. The man who had driven them away was nowhere in sight.
“I can’t get it out of my head that there’s something strange about this business,” he said. “I’d like to know why he was so anxious to chase us away.”
“Aw, you see a mystery in everything,” scoffed Chet. “He’s just a cranky old chap who likes to show his authority. I’ll bet he even tries to boss the rabbits and the snowbirds on the island. Let’s go!”
The ice-boat moved slowly away from Cabin Island and the boys soon forgot their disappointment in the exhilaration of swift flight across the ice.
They swept out of the cove, around the rocky point, out into the bay. Far ahead of them lay Bayport, its towers and spires shining in the sunset. It was getting colder, and the wind stung their faces to a rosy glow.