"So there is, and I am glad of it. He will be able to direct us. I shouldn't be surprised if he were Mr. Jones," said Cora turning the Petrel to shore.
Under a big willow, in a sort of natural basket seat, formed by the uncovered roots of the big trees, a man sat, and as the boat grazed the shore, he looked up from some papers he held in his hands. Cora could see that he was very dark, and had that almost uncomfortable manner of affecting extreme politeness peculiar to foreigners of certain classes, for, as she spoke to him, he arose, slid the paper into his pocket, and bowed most profusely.
"I am looking for the cabin of Mr. Peters," said Cora, stepping ashore toward the tree. "Can you direct me to it?"
"The cabin of Mr. Peters?" and when the man spoke the foreign suspicion was confirmed. "Why, who might Mr. Peters be?"
"Jim Peters; don't you know him?" asked Cora determined not to be thrown off the track. "He lives just in here—I should think in that grove—"
"Oh, my dear miss no! You are mistaken. No one lives around here.
I am simply a rustic, looking about. But Jim Peters?"
"Are you not Mr. Jones?" blurted out Cora.
In spite of himself the man started.
"Mr. Jones?" he repeated. "Well, that name will do as well as any other. But allow me to tie your boat. Then I will take pleasure in showing you one of the prettiest strips of land this side of Naples."
"Oh, thank you. I have secured it," said Cora. "But I would like to explore this island."