"Ha!" said Enos. "Who d'ye s'pose I be?"
"The Czar of all the Russias—in disgeeze," said Rex airily. "I see you're not toting your scepter, and it's too hot a day, of course, to wear a crown. You'd ruin the sweatband."
The constable glared. "I'll tell you who I be. I'm Constable Quibb, of Blackport, that's who I be! And I wanter know by what right you boys air camping on this here island?"
"Oh, buttons and buttonhooks!" murmured Red Phillips. "I knew he couldn't be toting that tin star just for decorative purposes. You can see he's round shouldered from carrying it."
"Come on!" commanded Enos Quibb, rising threateningly from his seat. "Who are you youngsters, and what are ye doin' here?"
"How abrupt you are," Kingdon said soothingly. His hand was fumbling in the inner pocket of his jacket. "Suppose we have a permit to camp on Storm Island?"
"Wal, s'pose you have," snapped Enos. "Le's see it."
"All in good time——"
"Ye can't fool me none," interrupted the constable. "I know who's got the permit from the Manatee Company. And there ain't but one party been give it, neither. Can't fool me."
"I wouldn't try," Rex said with apparent awe. "It would be Lèse Majesté—no less."