"Hustle up the breakfast, Cloudman," Rex commanded. "And I'll tell you all our tale of woe. It's some tale, too. How's your stone-bruise, Jawn?"
"About the same as your scraped shin, I reckon; and your foot. Why, that's badly bruised, Rex," he added, with sudden commiseration, as he saw how tenderly the skipper of the Spoondrift was bathing his injured foot with arnica.
"Goodness gracious! Yes!" barked Rex. "Hospital job, very likely. That Indian has a foot like an elephant's."
"Vicious scoundrel," acclaimed his friend.
"He's a hard hitter—with his feet. Perhaps the rest of them are when they're not hived up in a tent."
"We'd better sail over to that Blackport place and get a constable," the older boy suggested. "Those chaps are trespassers, all right."
"Leave it to yours truly," Rex said, putting on his canvas shoe with care.
"What's your scheme?"
"Haven't any. I'll roll my sleeves up to prove my innocence," returned Rex. "But I am awfully curious."
"I believe, on my soul," said Midkiff with vigor, "that you'd rather get into trouble than not."