“Likely enough,” I said; “you and I walk on the beach every day, and of course we leave footprints.”
“Friday,” he answered, “this was on the beach on the other side of the island, where we never go.”
“I was there,” said I, “the day before I went out sailing.”
“Friday,” he continued, shaking his finger at me, “is your foot small?”
“Well, not so very; I can wear No. 10 shoes, though.”
“Are your shoes narrow, with a little heel in the middle of each one?”
“Not much,” said I; “but then what’s the use of talking about shoes when I haven’t worn any since I’ve been here.”
“Then, you see,” said Mr. Crusoe, “that you couldn’t have made the print of a shoe on the beach.”
“But you might have made it,” I answered; “you wear shoes.”
“Friday, now steady yourself and don’t be frightened. Be calm, like me. That footprint, Friday, was made by a woman’s shoe.”