“Nothing better than planked fish,” said Tillie, as she cleaned up the last morsel and sucked her fingers. “Next problem is one of transportation.”
“Tickets for two,” replied Florence, “and no return tickets, please.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Tillie philosophically. “This isn’t half bad; not near so bad as what was intended for us.”
“No,” Florence’s tone was a sober one, “it’s not.”
“Well,” Florence’s voice took on a more cheerful tone, “this appears to be our island. We’d better explore it. There may be some ‘Man Friday’ just around the corner.”
They started out along the pebbly beach. Here and there they came upon bits of wreckage from cottagers’ docks that had been carried away by the high water. Two posts joined by cross pieces, long planks very full of spikes, short bits of broken boards—such was the driftwood that obstructed their path.
“Enough planks and nails to build a house,” was Tillie’s comment.
“Why not?” Florence became enthusiastic at once. “At least we could build a three-sided shelter with one side open to the fire. That’s good sound lumber.” She struck one plank a thwack with the small axe she carried in her hand.
“We might,” admitted Tillie. “We’d better go farther. Find the best place.”
They trudged on. Then, quite unexpectedly, as they turned a corner, they saw something looming in the distance.