"Never mind," I said consolingly. "You'll be too busy cooking the dinner to want to sit down. What shall we do with the car?"
"Oh, run her into the boat-house," said Tommy. "There's plenty of room there. And then you might shove the grub into the boat."
Mortimer and I carried out his instructions. With the expenditure of considerable energy and language, we trundled that decayed scrap-iron into the shed, and then began to transfer its contents to the bottom of the dinghy.
By this Tommy had resumed his clothes and come to our assistance.
"I can't make it out, all the same," said Mortimer reflectively. "If there's no one on the island, how the devil did the boat get there? Old Quinn must have got off somehow last time he left."
"Perhaps he's a Christian Scientist, and just wished himself ashore," suggested Tommy. "Anyhow, it's no good worrying about miracles. Catch on to this, and that's the lot."
He pushed over a bulky case of soda-water, which Mortimer, still frowning thoughtfully to himself, tucked under one arm, and carrying the remaining stores between us, we made our way down to the dinghy.
"I'll take the oars," I said; "it's just my distance."
"Don't overtire yourself," put in Tommy kindly. "Remember there's a stiff stream running."
"If you find it too much for you," added Mortimer, "we can always get out and walk."