“Boy! Any rich man in America would give a fortune to have this in his back yard!” Jack exclaimed.
“Yeah, sure,” Stew agreed. “But a fish is a fish and I’m having some broiled for supper.”
“Here’s the line.” Jack held it out to him. “Try your luck. I’m going up higher to find the spring.”
A few yards farther up, the stream forked, and at the head of the first fork he sought and found a cool, bubbling spring. And beside that spring was the telltale mark of a human foot.
“Must be a big village of natives,” he told himself. “Sooner or later, we’ll have to cast our lot with them, but I’m bound I’ll have a look at them first.”
Jack filled his canteen and stood for a time staring off at the sea. Once he imagined that he caught the scream of that mysterious, propellerless plane, but in the end he decided that it was a wild parrot’s call.
At last his gaze was fixed on one spot. Raising his binoculars he took a good look.
Something out there on the sea, all right! he assured himself. Pretty far out. Looks like a raft or a partially submerged plane. It’s sure to drift this way. Current and wind are both right. If it were only a plane we could put in working order.
When he returned to the small lake, he found Stew the proud possessor of a fine string of fish.
“Grubs,” he explained. “I got grubs out of a rotten log and used them for bait.”