“Oh, Jim won’t want any thanks. He’ll be offended if you try to thank him. He saw you from the motor-boat. He’s a gruff old tar, but he’s as good as gold.”
“It was lucky for me that there was somebody here—I suppose I’m on the island?”
“You are. There’s the beach where Jim brought you in.” She pointed through the open door.
“Are you yachting up this way?” ventured Bill.
“Good gracious, no!” cried the girl. “I live here.”
“Live here?” Bill repeated in astonishment. “Why in the world—”
She laughed softly. “Well, I suppose I like it. I have a bungalow back in the hollow. This is really Jim’s bunk. He sleeps in there. But you haven’t told me about yourself. Where did you come from?”
The innocent question caught Bill up short. “Oh, I’m on a walking tour,” he said as steadily as he could, then smiled wanly at his joke. “I—I went down to the shore for a swim and that confounded current got me. I thought I was bound for Davy Jones, all right!”
“Where did you go for a bath?” she asked anxiously, it seemed to him.
“Oh, there’s a little bay at the end of a lane off the main road to Clayton. And the sea looked so tempting I couldn’t resist it.”