"What'll we do?" asked Kirby, at the tall fellow's elbow.
"About what?" countered the other, with a lift of his eyebrows and a tantalizing smile that seemed an index of his character. "What's fussing you up, Harry?"
"This Quibb can put us off the island. Of course, the Lumber Company did issue a permit for a party to camp here—and we're here first—huh?"
His friend had grabbed his arm suddenly, stopping dead in the path. "You do have an idea once in a while in that cranium of yours, Harry," he drawled.
"I don't feel any different from usual," said Kirby, rubbing his head and grinning. "If there's an idea milling around in there I don't sense it."
"But I do. Leave it to me." His friend started onward again, leading the procession to the encampment.
It was a beautiful spot they had selected in which to set up their tents—an open grove sloping easily to the edge of Manatee Sound which lay, on this particular June day, as smooth as a millpond between the island and Manatee Head, five miles away.
Ben Comas, much excited, hurried toward them. "Whatchu goin' to do about this, Horrors? See that fellow? He's mad's a hatter."
"He'll have a stroke—I shouldn't wonder," drawled the tall lad. "Too hot a day to let one's dander rise."
"You can joke," snapped Ben. "But he means business."