At once the sliding and shuffling noise increased. The first beams of the sun coming up out of the eastern ocean began to separate the strands of mist. The boy and girl peered earnestly out upon the open shore.
“There’s one!” gasped Agnes. “A big fellow! Wish we could catch it to show to the children, Neale.”
“I mean to catch it,” declared Neale, running down from the cocoanut grove, a stick in his hand. “And more than one.”
“Going to make it lay more eggs?” giggled Agnes, keeping step with him.
“My dear girl! That is fresh meat for us. Fish and clams are all right. But here is the nicest kind of meat—better than chicken. And nourishing fat. My flock not only will supply us with eggs at this season of the year, but the turtle will give us ragout and soup beyond compare.”
“Why, you talk like a French chef, Neale O’Neil,” she cried.
“Say rather like a hungry American boy who wants variety. Ah! This is a monster, Aggie!”
They almost fell over a turtle which was bigger around than the bottom of an ordinary tub. Neale stuck his stick under it, heaved persistently, and the struggling, hissing creature went over on its back.
“Now look him in the beak,” laughed Neale. “But keep away from his flippers. Those claws are sharp.”
“Goodness!” ejaculated the girl. “What do you think! Here is another!”