Under the awning in the stern, two girls were chatting as they dawdled over their morning chocolate. The younger and prettier of these was Josephine Blaise, the motherless daughter of the yacht-owner; the other was Florence Marlow, her most intimate friend.
“Dad told me I could have the runabout ashore,” Josephine was saying, with a sudden access of animation. “We’ll go along the beach, as long as the going’s good, or till we scare up the ponies.”
“I do hope we’ll see them digging holes in the sand, so as to get fresh water,” Florence exclaimed.
But Josephine was quick to dissent:
“They don’t dig for water,” she explained, with a superior air. “They dig the holes in the beach when the tides out, and then the tide comes in and fills the holes, of course. When it ebbs, the ponies go around and pick out the fish, and eat them.”
Florence stared disbelievingly.
“Oh, what a whopper!” she cried.
“Captain Hawks told me himself,” Josephine asserted, with confidence. “He knows all about them—he’s seen them wild on the island and tame on the mainland.”
“Same ones, probably!” was the tart retort. “I 98 thought the doctor lied ably, but he’s truth itself compared with that hairy skipper of yours.”
Josephine tossed her head.