"And we went blithering and blundering around for half the night," says Old Hickory, "until this marvel of marine intelligence ran us hard and fast aground here, where we've been ever since."
"I—I got turned around," protests Rupert.
"We admit that," says Old Hickory. "I will even concede that you are swivel-brained and couldn't help it. But that fails to explain why you should invent for our benefit any such colossal whopper as that treasure-island fiction."
"No fiction about it," grumbles Rupert, his voice a bit husky, either from indignation or chicken sandwich, we couldn't tell which. "And I'll find it yet," he adds.
"You will have ample opportunity," says Old Hickory, "for when we leave here you will be left also. You may make a life job of it, if you wish."
"We ought to be getting back," says Auntie. "Will that little boat hold us all?"
"Why, this one is afloat now," announces Vee. "The tide must have come in."
"And here we've been sitting, like so many cabbage heads on a bench, waiting for someone to come and tell us about it!" snorts Old Hickory. "Excellent! Killam, do you think you can pilot us back without trying to cut new channels through the State of Florida?"
Rupert don't make any promises, but he gets busy; and pretty soon we're under way. It's about then that I springs this hunch of mine.
"Say, Mr. Ellins," says I, "was this island you were lookin' for a little one with a hump in the middle?"