chanted Berty, then she stopped. “But I must not be selfish. I will just row round Bobbetty’s Island and then go home.”
Bobbetty’s Island was a haunted island about the size of an extensive building lot. Poor old man Bobbetty had lived here alone for so many years that he had become crazy at last, and had hanged himself to one of the spruce-trees.
Picnic-parties rarely landed here—the island was too small, and the young people did not like its reputation. They always went farther down to some of the larger islands.
So this little thickly wooded piece of land stood alone and solitary, dropped like a bit of driftwood in the middle of the river.
Berty was not afraid of the ghost. She was rowing gaily round the spruces singing softly to herself, when she saw something that made her mouth close abruptly.
An annoyed-looking man sat on a big flat rock close to the water’s edge. He stared at her without speaking, and Berty stared at him. This was no ghost. Poor old Bobbetty had not appeared in the flesh. This was a very living and very irritated man, judging from his countenance.
Berty smiled softly to herself, then, without a word, she drew near the islet, took her hands from the oars, and, pulling her note-book from her pocket, coolly scribbled a few lines on a slip of paper:
“Dear Sir:—If you have lost your boat, which I judge from appearances you have done, I am willing to give you a lift back to the city.
“Yours truly,
“Berty Gravely.”