"We did hunt, and she got her feet wet. It's in the mud. 'Way down."
"Boys, come on. We've got a shipwreck."
"Hear that, Quill?"
"See that girl, Mort? There's something happened. Come on."
They stopped as they went by to throw their armfuls of sticks and bark on the fire, and then they dashed after their dandy fisherman, who was already following the eager leading of the wet little girl. She was in a desperate hurry, and she led the way almost straight across the islet. This did not contain more than a couple of acres of rocks and trees, and was easy to cross; but there on the northern shore was a scene which both Mort Hopkins and Quill Sanders understood at a glance.
A large, square-nosed, rickety-looking old punt of a boat was pulled part way up on a log at the water's edge, and anybody could see that one of her worn-out bottom boards had fallen away bodily from its proper place.
"There's no sort of float in that thing," said Quill to Mort.
"No, sirree; she's done for."
"One, two, three, four, five, besides my little wet messenger," remarked their grown-up friend. And then he added: "I declare! A young lady!"
They saw him color slightly, too, as a tall, well-dressed, and quite pretty girl of seventeen or near it slowly arose from the rock on which she had been sitting. She did not come forward, and she was blushing, and Quill whispered: