“Pshaw,” said Slim disgustedly, when the Captain announced that they had run out of gasoline. They had come to a stop just off a small rocky island and with the aid of the one oar the launch boasted the Captain proceeded to paddle in to shore, in the hope that he could obtain gasoline there.
“Regular desert island,” grunted Slim, as they walked and met no one. “None of the cottages seem to be occupied.”
“Cheer up; we’ll find someone,” said the Captain. “The fishermen live on these islands all winter. Look at the limestone quarries over there.”
“And the ruined something or other behind them,” said the Bottomless Pitt.
“Let’s cut across here,” said Slim, who was ever on the lookout for short cuts. “I see some houses over there.”
“And break our necks crawling over those stones,” said Monkey. “Not much.”
So they started to follow the path that led around the curve of the shore. “Wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to cut across, anyway,” said the Captain, when they had gone some distance. “These blooming little stones are worse to walk on than spikes. Those rocks couldn’t have been much worse.” And he stood still and looked thoughtfully back at the ruined cellar.
“Hi!” he exclaimed suddenly. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” asked Slim.
“That white rag flying from the rock over there. It surely wasn’t there a minute ago.”