When nearly three hours had elapsed after they had departed from Mackinac the captain, once more turning to his passengers, said, “Yonder lie the shores of Western Duck Island.” As he spoke he pointed to a low lying strip of land that could be seen far in advance of them. “My opinion is,” he continued, “that those boys didn’t stay out in their boat all night. Maybe they landed.”
“Is anybody living on the island?” said George quickly.
“Not regular. This time of the year though there may be parties camping out. A bit later in the fall there are plenty of people there shooting ducks.”
“That doesn’t do us any good,” retorted George. “What we want is to find out where those fellows are now and if they got any help on the island.”
“You wait a bit,” rejoined the captain, “and we’ll find out.”
Swiftly the little motor-boat approached the shores of the island they were seeking. It too passed the long strip of rushes which had been seen the preceding night by John and Fred in their attempts to find a landing place.
The motor-boat at last came to anchor off a rocky shore and at the suggestion of the captain George and Grant climbed into the skiff and hastily casting off at once rowed ashore.
“I’ll wait for you here,” called the captain as the boys clambered up on the bank. “I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour. Come back and we’ll try it farther down the shore.”
The boys agreed to return within the specified time and then after peering eagerly all about them together started toward the woods they could see in the distance.
Just why they walked in this direction neither could explain, but there was somehow a thought in the mind of each that possibly within its shelter a camp or a house might be found.