“You are right, my boy!” exclaimed Mr. Howbridge more confidently. “There is a chance that the island may be of volcanic formation, and be immensely old. As old as the big islands of the West Indies. That being the case, we may easily find water bubbling up from the subterranean depths.”
“Hope so,” muttered Neale. “Thirst is an awful thing, as the codfish said when he found himself on dry land.”
Still, it was not a matter to joke upon. The three followed the example of the girls and went to sleep, fearing no enemy on this deserted island. Neale O’Neil was astir very early, however. Indeed, it was not yet light and a fog lay upon both sea and shore. This gray pall made the place seem so strange and uncanny that Neale could not go to sleep again. Besides, he heard something!
He sat up and threw aside his blanket. There was a shuffling step on the sands below the palm grove. No, there were countless shuffling steps!
Amazed—not a little frightened for the moment—Neale got lightly to his feet. He was about to touch Luke and try to awaken him, when to his mind came the simple explanation of the sound, and he almost broke into loud laughter.
At second thought he stifled this desire to vent his amusement and crept away from the camp to the edge of the grove. The sliding, shuffling sound in the sand above highwater mark continued. He could see absolutely nothing, for the light fog plastered the shore like a mat.
Remembering something that he had promised Agnes Kenway the day before, Neale went back to the tent and scratched with his finger nail on the canvas. He heard a movement in answer almost at once, and spoke Agnes’ name.
“This is Ruth,” said the older sister. “What do you want, Neale?”
“Agnes,” replied Neale, chuckling.
“What you punching me for, Ruthie?” asked the sleepy voice of the flyaway sister.