"It'll be there in the morning, you know," says he.
"That's so," says Mr. Robert. "Have a motor boat ready at nine o'clock. Not much use getting there before 10:30. Penrhyn wouldn't be up."
That sounded sensible to me. When I go huntin' for lost dramatists I like to take it easy and be braced up for the day with a good shot of ham and eggs. This part of the program was carried out smooth. And it's a nice little sail across old Barnegat Bay with the oyster fleet busy and the fishin' boats dotted around. But the native who piloted us out was doubtful about anybody's being on High Bar.
"I seen some parties shootin' around on Love Ladies yesterday," says he, "an' a couple more was snipin' on Sea Dog, but I didn't hear nary gun let off on th' Bar."
"Oh, my friend doesn't shoot, anyway," says Mr. Robert.
"Ain't nothin' else for him to do on High Bar," says the native, "less'n he wants to collect skeeter bites."
When we got close enough to see the island I begun to suspicion I'd missed out on my hunch, for there ain't a soul in sight. We could see the whole of it, too, for the highest part isn't much over two feet above tide-water mark. Near the boat landing is the club house, set up on piling, with a veranda across the front. The rest of High Bar is only a few acres of sedge and marsh.
"Yea-uh!" says the native. "Must be somebody thar. Door's open. Yea-uh! Thar's old Lem Robbins, who allus does the cookin'. Hey, Lem!"
Lem waves cordial and waddles down to meet us. He's a fat, grizzled old pirate who looked bored and discontented.
"Got anybody with you, Lem?" asks the native.