“We’ll open the north side in a minute,” said Priscilla. “He can’t be at the west end of it, for it is all bluff and boulders. If he isn’t on the north shore he’s not there at all.
Frank twisted himself again into the bottom of the boat, and peeped under the sail. The north shore of Illaunglos held no tent.
“Good,” said Priscilla. “Well stand on. The next island is Inishark. He may be there. There’s a well on it, and he’d naturally want to camp somewhere within reach of water.”
Frank, still curled up beside the centreboard case, gazed under the sail at Inishark. The boat, swaying and dipping in a still freshening breeze, sped on.
“Is there any large white stone on the ridge of the island?” he asked.
“No,” said Priscilla. “There isn’t a white stone of any size in the whole bay. It’s most likely a sheep.”
“It’s not a sheep. Nobody ever saw a sheep with a back that went up into a point. I believe it’s the top of a tent. Steer for it, Priscilla.”
Frank was aglow with excitement. The sailing intoxicated him. The sight of the triangular apex of the tent put himself beside himself.
“Turn the boat, Priscilla. Go down to the island.”
Priscilla was cooler.