"We ought to be nearing this island," remarked Armstrong, looking up from his map. "I say, Pratt, you've been here before: can't you remember something about it?"
Pratt thrummed his strings, smiled sweetly, and sang, in the head notes of a light tenor--
"The roses have made me remember
All that I tried to forget;
The past with its pain comes back again,
Filling my heart with----
Sorry, old man, I've pitched it a bit too high. Lend me your ears while I modulate from G to E flat."
"Keep your Percy's Reliques for serenading the moon. You were here as a kid; aren't we nearly there?"
"'The past with its pain'--fact! It was pain. My old uncle could beat any beak at licking. He made a very pretty criss-cross pattern on me that day--all for pinching a peach! Frightful temper he had. My people said it was due to sunstroke on his travels. Jolly lot of good being a famous traveller, if it makes you a beast. He was more ratty every time he came home. I don't wonder my pater had a royal row with him, and hasn't been near the place since. Rough luck, to have to desert your ancestral dust-heap.
"I try, try to forget you,
But I only love you more."
"Isn't that the island? Away there to starboard?" Warrender interposed. "But I thought you said we might camp there, my Percy?"
"True, sober Philip. We picnicked there in the days of yore."
"Well, we'd have to do a week's clearing before we camped there now. Look at it!"