Janet was seen leisurely approaching. She carried a little white shawl over her arm, and a yellow-backed novel in her other hand.
"I say," exclaimed Patrick, coming up to her, "you don't mean to tell me you are going to read?"
"And why not?" replied Janet; "it would be rather dull work sitting for three hours in that island doing nothing. See what I have also brought—a box of matches and a piece of candle. You say there's a little old summerhouse there—in that summerhouse I'll sit and read 'Pretty Miss Neville.' I assure you, boys, the time will pass very quickly and agreeably."
"You have some spunk in you," said Patrick, in a tone of genuine admiration. His black eyes flashed fire with the admiration he felt for the slim pale girl who was brave enough to despise the superstitious terrors which overmastered himself.
There was no horse in the country round about that Patrick O'Mahony would not have mounted; the most terrible danger could not have daunted his spirit. His physical courage had never known the point where fear could conquer it; but he owned to himself that he would have shrunk in abject terror from the very simple feat of sitting for three hours alone in the Witch's Island.
"If you'd like to get out of it," he said suddenly, "Gerry and I will never tell—will we, Gerry?"
"No, truth and honor!" replied Gerald.
"You see you have proved your pluck," continued Patrick. "It would be awfully dull for you staying for three hours alone on the island."
"Not at all, I assure you," replied Janet; "I have my book and my candle. Help me into the boat, please, gentlemen, or I shall begin to think you are a fine pair of little humbugs."
"Oh, if that is your way of putting it," said Patrick, his quick temper easily roused, "we had better start at once. Come along, Gerry; help me to unmoor the boat. Now, Miss Janet, jump in, if you please."