Jane and I were together, with Willie and Don in advance of us, and Don carrying the shotgun.
“You really saw it, Jane?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I thought I did. Then I thought that I didn’t.”
“Well, I hope we see it now. And if it’s human—which it must be if there’s anything to it at all—we’ll march it back to St. Georges and lock it up.”
She turned and smiled at me, but it was a queer smile, and I must admit my own feelings were queer.
“Don’t you think you’re talking nonsense, Bob?”
“Yes, I do,” I admitted. “I guess maybe the whole thing is nonsense. But it’s got the police quite worried. You knew that, didn’t you? All this wild talk—there must be some basis for it.”
Don was saying, “Take the lower path, Willie. Take the same route you were taking when you saw it.”
WE climbed down a steep declivity, shadowed by cedar trees, and reached the edge of a tiny, almost landlocked, lagoon. It was no more than a few hundred feet in diameter. The jagged, porous gray-black rocks rose like an upstanding crater rim to mark its ten-foot entrance to the sea. A little white house stood here with its back against the fifty-foot cliff. It was dark, its colored occupants probably already asleep. Two rowboats floated in the lagoon, moored near the shore. And on the narrow strip of stony beach, nets were spread to dry.
“This way, Mister Don. I was comin’ along here, toward the Fort.” Willie was again shaking with excitement. “Just past that bend.”