It took some time for the newly fledged skippers to drop anchor, and furl their sails, but finally it was done. The tide was out, and the girls took off their shoes and stockings and waded up the beach from the boats, carrying their lunch boxes and some pillows that Aunty Welcome had put in at the last minute. It was comical to see the procession of eight wading in, each with a gayly colored sofa pillow on her head, and a box under one arm, but finally everything they wanted was ashore, and the invasion of Smugglers’ Cove was complete.
Polly said it would be better to explore before the sun rose high, and they started off, taking the beach as the surest path. It was even a better strip of sand than they had at the Knob, firm and beautifully white, with the remains of millions of infinitely tiny shells crumbling into it. Polly took up a handful of sand and called Ruth to come and look at it.
“I wish we had a microscope. It’s all fragments of shells. Isn’t it lovely, Ruth?”
“Wait till you see the Castle,” Nancy called. “That’s what everybody along shore calls it, Smugglers’ Castle. The walls are made of rocks and shells, and a sort of clay with shells stuck in it.”
“Like the old walls at St. Augustine,” Polly exclaimed. “They are like mosaic, the shells are matched in so perfectly.”
“Oh, girls, I just thought of a good plan,” Kate remarked, suddenly. “Wouldn’t it be dandy for us to keep a log-book?”
“But do yacht clubs keep them?” Isabel said dubiously.
“I don’t know whether they do or not,” Kate returned. “But I think it would be fine for this yacht club to. Keep a regular daybook of general events, I mean, everything that happens to us of general interest. Then at the end of the vacation, have eight copies, and bind them in linen covers to keep as souvenirs.”
“Kate, we’ll do it,” Polly said, approvingly. “Call it the Memory Log Book of the Castaways of Lost Island.”
“What a dandy place for ghosts,” Sue called back to them, as she climbed up the rocks, her shoes and stockings in her hand.