"Know anybody there by the name of Tod Fulton? He's a cousin of mine—why, what's the matter?" for the three boys had cried out in dismay.
"Why—why—he's the boy we're after. He's our chum," stammered Jerry at last.
"Then what you after him for—if he's your chum?"
"Well, he's—he's——" began Jerry, and Dave blurted out:
"Drowned!"
"What!" cried the whole crew at that. "Tod Fulton drowned!"
"We don't know for sure. That's why we're trying to get onto Lost
Island."
Then the story came out, piecemeal, for all three insisted on telling it. Phil stood as if stunned. At the end he said simply:
"He's my cousin. I'm Phil Fulton. We live at Chester. That's about ten miles south of here. We're the Flying Eagle Patrol of Boy Scouts—maybe you noticed our suits."
"Thought you were some kind of bushwhackers the way you dropped on us," complained Frank. "But what was the idea in thumping us because you thought we were from the island?"