“What a gorgeous sunset!” exclaimed Miss Boothby, looking toward the water.
They all moved down in the direction of the pier. As they came in view of the broad and many-colored bay they saw a sailboat heading for the landing. Cotterell stopped and again raised his hand. “Can it be that the people of Barmouth are coming out here again?” he demanded indignantly. “I’ll have nothing to do with them, and they know it! I will not give them my plate!”
The sailboat came on. Cotterell, followed by the others, walked out on the pier.
“What do you want?” called out the buff-coated man. “This is Cotterell’s Island.”
“We know it is,” answered a man in the boat. “Who are you? You look like Sir Peter.”
“I don’t want any rebels from Barmouth landing here,” came the reply.
“There aren’t any rebels nowadays. We won the Revolution.”
“You shan’t have my silver plate.”
There were laughs from those in the boat. “We don’t want it. We’ve brought paper plates of our own.”
“Well,” said Cotterell, “this is most extraordinary!” He turned to his guests. “Shall I let them land?”