"The deponent knoweth not. I was too busy to scrutinize them with care," admitted Kingdon. "But I yearn to know who, what and why they are—and particularly if they intend to linger around here."
"There's room enough for us all, I suppose," muttered Midkiff.
"Probably. But I know right well, old man, that the company has only issued one permit for a party to camp on Storm Island this season. We got it. Anybody else is here without authority."
"What'll we do—run 'em off?"
"If they don't run us off," and Kingdon chuckled. "But we're not hired to police the Manatee Company's property, that's sure. We're not wearing bristles, either. Only——"
"What?"
"I have a remote notion that fellows who would come to Storm Island, where it is so well known that trespassing is forbidden, should not be clasped at once to our friendly bosoms."
"I get your point. Perhaps they're crooks hiding out from the police, or something like that."
"Your perspicacity," drawled the other, "is something wonderful. These fellows may be a bothersome crew. We should know what and who they are before we set up our lares and penates on these savage shores. Maybe they are pirates. Yo, ho, ho! And a bottle of grape-juice! I don't want to get you infants into trouble with real bad men. I am weighted down by my responsibilities in the matter, Jawn."
"I see," said Midkiff. "It isn't your idea that all of us shall pile ashore, then——"