“S’pose he needs work done. Why don’t he hire some of the folks here in town? ‘Stead of that, he brings in strangers.
“Well, they’re welcome. There ain’t none of the boys round here wants to work for Whitburn, now, though lots of ‘em would ha’ taken a job when first he come here.”
The old man ended his excited sentences by replacing his clay pipe in his mouth. He puffed furiously; then gazed questioningly past Harry and blinked his eyes.
Harry sensed that the storekeeper was signaling to the old fellow, prompting him to be quiet. Evidently the conjecture was correct; for the native became suddenly thoughtful.
“How long has Professor Whitburn lived on Death Island?” asked Harry.
The old man shook his head.
“I can’t just recollect,” he said.
“Did he come here alone?”
“Don’t believe I recollect that, either.”
HARRY left the store, and went across the road to the garage. The building was a converted stable. It had space for several cars. Harry arranged to leave his coupe there.