"One theory exploded," remarked Armstrong.
"Did 'ee signal for help last night?" asked Rogers.
"Well, we----" Pratt began, but Warrender interrupted him.
"No, we hadn't time," he said. "The fire came on us too suddenly. By the way, we shall have to buy some new things. I suppose Blevins can provide us with a tent?"
"Surely, sir; he've most everything somewhere about. I always thought no good 'ud come of camping on that island. There's a fate in it."
"How long has it had this ill name?" asked Armstrong.
"Not so long, sir. You see, nobody bothered much about it after the old man died years ago. It didn't belong to no one, seemingly; there was nothing to take any of the folk there; and 'twasn't till a month or two ago that they began to talk of sperits. Nick Rush came in all of a tremble one night--he'd been away for a bit--and said he was setting a snare there when he heard most horrible groanings and moanings. He took some of the folk along, and they heard 'em too, and ever since then the village have give it a wide berth. You're well out of it, that's what I say. Not as ghosts carry matches, though; I reckon 'twas one of you young gentlemen a-smoking as did the mischief."
"A lesson to us, Rogers," said Pratt, gravely. "Smoking is a very bad habit, according to our masters at school--who all smoke like furnaces--they ought to know."
They had hardly finished breakfast when Mr. Crawshay drove down to the ferry in a light trap, crossing on foot.
"It's true, then," he said, as he entered the parlour. "I knew nothing about it until an hour ago. A lighted match, they say."