CHAPTER II
Dinshaw Tells of His Island
"Here," said Locke, "comes Rip Van Winkle—without his dog."
"A beggar!" whispered Marjorie, looking past Trask. "Poor old man!"
Trask turned from the table, and saw at the end of the veranda an old man approaching with a package under his arm. He looked like a vagabond, in khaki trousers with the bottoms fringed by tatters through which showed his bare ankles; pitiful old cloth shoes; a patched coat of white drill with frogging across the front such as Chinese mess boys wear; and a battered, rimless straw hat. He drew near the table with weary feet, hesitatingly and dazed, as though he had lost his way, peering about like an owl thrust into the light of mid-day from a darkened belfry.
"Why, it must be Captain Dinshaw!" said Trask.
The old man stopped ten feet from the trio and lifting his head like a hound who has taken scent, gazed at them suspiciously. Then he smiled toothlessly and swung off his bowl of a hat with a grand air.
"Aye, sir," he said, in a weak but shrill voice. "Cap'n Dinshaw, late of the bark, James B. Wetherall, lost in a typhoon an' Lord ha' mercy on us!"