“Somebody lives on this island, or used to anyway,” remarked Grant. “Those trees never grew wild like that.”
“Of course not,” said John. “It doesn’t look as though they’d been cultivated lately though.”
“We’ll find out before long anyway,” said Fred. “If there are people here all I hope is that they’re not cannibals.”
“Dey no cannibals heah,” said Sam so seriously that every one laughed.
“I hope not, Sam,” said Fred, smiling. “I’d hate to be eaten.”
They crossed the island which was not more than a half-mile wide at this point, and that seemed to be the average most of the way. The view was the same as on the opposite side; not a thing to be seen but the boundless ocean with not a speck of a sail or a bit of land within sight. It was a little kingdom all of its own. A quarter of a mile from shore the low rollers broke ceaselessly on a coral reef, while overhead, the gulls swept around and around, their plaintive whistle being very distinct at times.
In silence the boys stood and gazed at the ocean.
“Looks as if we were alone in the world, doesn’t it?” said Fred at last.
“It surely does,” said George. “I somehow feel as if there ought to be some sort of a big black king sitting under one of these palm trees with about twenty slaves standing around fanning him.”
“Speaking of black,” remarked John. “What has happened to Sam?”