“Girls, look at this!” Polly stopped short, and pointed down at the beach. There were footsteps plainly to be seen in the sand.
“Who on earth could it be?” Isabel gasped, while Nancy ran down the shore, and knelt to look at them more closely. Polly’s eyes danced with fun, and she sang softly under her breath:
“Oh, Robinson Crusoe, he lived alone,
On a little island, he called his own,
No one to say when he came home,
Robinson Crusoe,
What made you do so?”
“Don’t, Polly, please,” Ruth said softly, her face rather anxious. “You can’t tell who may be here now, looking at us, when we can’t see them.”
“Who cares?” Polly laughed, merrily. “It makes it all the better. I never read about an island yet but what it had savages, or pirates, or something on it to make it interesting. This pirate wears real shoes anyway, so he’s partly civilized. You can tell by the footprints in the sand. But what are all these other funny marks all around. One, two, three, one, two, three, as if a campstool had danced a jig in the wet sand.”
“Maybe it’s somebody clamming,” said Crullers, hopefully.