the middle of a circular bay, forming a perfect horseshoe, with a sandy beach at its center and a rocky cliff on either side, two boys were fishing for shrimps. The taller of the two, a curly-haired, red-cheeked fellow, was rowing. The other, a short and sturdy lad, now and again lifted a pocket-net of wire-screening, and, shaking a score or more slimy, snapping creatures into one corner of it, seized them and tossed them, still alive, into a kettle of boiling water, which is simply the least cruel and regular way of handling shrimps; cook them on the spot and eat them some time afterward.
Both boys had the clear, ruddy complexion which comes from clean living and frequent sallies into the out-of-doors. Hugh Clarkston, the tall youth of the curly hair, was something of a student; his cousin. Booth Tucker, had been born for action and adventure.
"Look—look!" exclaimed Hugh, suddenly. "What's that out at the entrance of the bay—bit of drift or a seal?"
"Might be a seal. Watch it bob. It moves, I'd say."
"Take a pot-shot at it." Hugh lifted a light rifle from the bow and passed it to his cousin.
Booth stood with one knee braced on the seat and steadied himself for a shot.
"Dum boat rocks so!" he grumbled, "More waves out there, too. Watch the thing bob!"
"It's gone under!"
"No, there it is!"
"Try it now."
Catching his breath. Booth put his finger to the trigger. For a second the boat was quiet. The brown spot hung on the crest of a wavelet. It was a beautiful target; Booth was a sure shot.
Just as his finger touched the trigger, a strange thing happened—a something which sent the rifle clattering from nerveless fingers and the cold perspiration springing to his forehead.
"Who—who—where d'you suppose he came from?" he was at last able to sputter.
"Who knows?" said Hugh, scanning the sea. Never a mist nor a cloud obscured the vision, yet not a sail nor coil of smoke of nearby craft. "What's more important is—we've got to help him," he said, seizing the oars and rowing vigorously. Booth, having hung the shrimp-trap across the bow, drew a second pair of oars from beneath the seats and joined his cousin in sending the clumsy craft toward the brown spot still bobbing in the water.
The truth was that the brown spot was neither driftwood nor brown seal, but a human being. By some freak of circumstance, the swimmer had chanced to throw a white fore arm high out of the water just as Booth was prepared unwittingly to send a bullet crashing into his skull.
Realizing that this person, whoever he might be, had drifted in the water and was doubtless exhausted, the two boys now bent their backs to the oars in an effort to reach him.
The beach and cliffs back of the bay in which the boys had been fishing were part of the shore-line of a small island which, on this side, faced the open Pacific Ocean, and on the other, the waters of Puget Sound off the coast of the State of Washington.
Nestling among a group of giant yellow pines on a ridge well up from the beach, two white tents gleamed. There was no one about the tents at this moment. The two girls, who but a half-hour before had tidied up the place, had gone for a stroll across a narrow point of land and were at this time separated by a narrow tamarack-filled gully. Marion Norton, the older of the two, had gone back into the woods in search of a particular flaming red flower, which she needed to complete a collection she had been sketching in water-color. Lucile Tucker, her companion, had crossed the point and had come down to the beach. They were to meet on the beach some distance beyond. Lucile was Booth's sister. Marion and Hugh were cousins to the Tuckers and to one another. Marion had lived all her life in the North—for the most part in Nome, Alaska. She had there displayed an unusual talent for art, and had been sent down to the States that she might be taught some of the bewitching secrets of palette and brush. The others had always lived in Anacortes, Washington. "Burl" Tucker, father of Lucile and Booth, was a hard-fisted old seaman, who had turned his mind to codfish and salmon. A small portion of the fortune he had made had been paid for this island, which had always been known as Mutineer's Island. Another small sum had been expended in purchasing a motor-boat. That boat now lay a short way up a narrow stream, which ran from the island into the sea.