"Well, you'll find out!" declared the constable. "Nobody's allowed to camp on this island—not even to land here——"
"No-body?" put in the youth he addressed, in the same gentle tone.
"Why—we—well, say! The company did give a permit to one party for this summer."
"Well?" was the suave query.
"Say! Be you them?" demanded Quibb, flushing again. "I remember seeing you in Blackport, and you didn't say nothing to me then about comin' over here. Le's see," and he began fumbling in the inside pocket of his coat. "I got notice of this crowd that got permission from the Manatee Company to camp here——"
He drew out a letter. Ben Comas groaned. Kirby whispered emphatically: "Good-night! It's all off!" The constable unfolded the letter, and then quickly glanced up again at the quartette.
"This permit's issued to 'Rexford Kingdon and friends.'" Again he addressed the tall lad. "Does your name happen to be Kingdon?"
"Now you've said a mouthful," returned the leader of the camping party airily.
"Well! Well!" ejaculated the constable. "Why didn't you say so before?"
"You didn't ask me," the other returned, shrugging his shoulders, while his mates behind him stood in speechless amazement.