The flashing light that illumines the waters at night for us, did not gleam on them, but nevertheless, the high brown bank and the little slope of land looked inviting to weary men, as they cautiously rowed near to it, not knowing whom they might meet there.
They landed, made a fire, cooked their food, ate of it, and lay down to sleep until night should come again.
They set out early in the ensuing twilight, and rowed westward all night, in the face of a gentle wind.
“If there were only another Faulkner’s Island to flee to,” said Mr. Bushnell, as morning drew near. “Do you know (to one of the men) a safe place to hide in on this coast?”
They were then off Merwin’s Point, and between West Haven and Milford.
“There’s Poquahaug,” was the reply, with a momentary catch of the oar, and incline of the head toward the south-west.
“What is Poquahaug?”
“A little island, pretty well in, close to shore, as it were, and, maybe, deserted.”
After deliberate council had been held it was resolved to examine the locality.