Capwell Wyckoff - The Mercer Boys' Cruise in the Lassie (Capwell Wyckoff) (Literary Thoughts Edition)

“Maybe it was someone that couldn’t sleep, and decided to go out for a morning stroll,” grinned Terry.

“With a lantern in his hand?”

“Well, believe me, I’d hate to go wandering around that black island at night without a light of some kind with me!”

“Oh, there is no doubt about that. But I feel that he came down to look at us, and I don’t think there was any good in it all, either.”

“Nuts, Jim,” Don broke in. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Just as soon as I help you clean up, I’m going ashore.”

They all cleaned up ship after breakfast. A large amount of bilge water had crept in under the floor during the storm, and as the boys had no pump aboard, they were forced to dip it out by the bucket. Terry scooped the water up in a pail down below, passed the pail up the ladder to Don, who passed it to Jim in the stern. From there Jim emptied it overboard. This task took them the better part of an hour, and when it was over Don announced: “I’m going ashore now.”

Jim was airing out the blankets and Terry decided that he would write to his mother and sister, so Don stepped down into the dinghy alone. Grasping the oars he called up to them, “See you later,” and rowed toward Mystery Island.

He found that it was a hard pull. The waves were choppy and troublesome, and the dinghy climbed and slipped backward. It took all his strength to keep it going forward, and the distance to the shore seemed long because of the energy necessary to reach it. After a half-hour’s row Don beached the dinghy on the sand at Mystery Island.

He pulled the boat far up on the sand, to make sure that the tide, creeping in, would not carry it away while he was gone. He stood for a moment and looked around him. He was in a sheltered cove, ringed around with trees and thick undergrowth, with a shelving sandy beach running down to the water. If any of the stories about pirates and smugglers were true, he reflected, this island was just the place for such things. It was a black, silent sort of a place, well named Mystery Island. Although Don had laughed at Jim’s fears he admitted to himself that he did not feel altogether comfortable. There was a brooding sense of mystery over the place, an air of evil watchfulness that he did not like.

Quite sharply he pulled himself together, realizing that he was allowing the wrong impressions to play upon his mind. “You’ll never get anywhere that way, Donald my son,” he murmured. To fortify himself, he began to whistle as he found the path through the woods.

The path was well beaten and he wondered who used it so much. Obviously someone lived on the island most of the year, possibly all year around, though Don could not imagine anyone living on the bleak waste in the wintertime. He wondered why there was no boat to be seen, since the inhabitants must have a boat. It would be impossible otherwise to get across to the mainland for supplies, and no one could live for any length of time on the place without renewing supplies from time to time. Possibly the boat was on the other side of the island. He knew that it would have to be a good-sized boat, too, for no rowboat or small power boat would do. But as the map had showed the island to be a large-sized one, he wondered why the people who lived at the house kept a boat on the far side of the island, especially as there was such a perfectly good harbor on this side.

He followed the path through a dense growth of trees and small shrubbery, finding that it had been worn down by many feet. The ground had been worn down hard and there was no sign of cluttering grass. Admitting that a rather large family lived in the house just ahead, he wondered why they went so often to the beach as to keep in perfect order a path through the undergrowth.

The path dipped slightly and then wound up a small hill, and at length he saw before him the low house. Before going any further he stopped to study it. It was old, built of boards that looked rough and weatherbeaten, and if it had ever had a coat of paint on it, the fact was not evident now. One crooked chimney stood unsteadily at the back. The windows of the upper floor had all been broken and were boarded up, but those on the ground floor were, for the most part, whole. The glass was dirty and the frames warped and bent. Don walked nearer, looking closely for signs of life about the place.

The front door was boarded up, and he saw at once that he could not get in there. A rotting front porch sprawled across the width of the house, and one corner of the roof was falling down. Don took a path around the house, looking closely to see if anyone was around, but there was no sign of movement in the place. But he felt sure that someone lived in the place, for a thin line of smoke drifted upward from the crooked chimney.

The back yard of the house was an overgrown plot, with a few rotting outhouses standing near the dense woods that pressed close to the place. Don stepped on the low porch and knocked gently. While he waited, he turned once more and looked around him. It struck him that there was not a sign of a chicken about the property, and he felt that his journey for eggs would be useless.

“Nothing like trying, though,” he thought, and knocked again. There was no response, and he was inclined to think that there was no one at home. But just then the tempting odor of bacon assailed his nose.

“Surely there is someone at home,” he decided. “No one would leave the house and allow bacon to fry on the stove. I wonder why they——”

He heard a bolt rattle on the inside of the door and it slowly opened. At first the interior of the place seemed so dark that he could not make out the person of the one who had opened the door. Then he saw that it was an old woman, with a severe face and untidy white hair.

“What do you want?” she asked, somewhat harshly.

“Pardon me,” Don said politely, “but I’d like to know if you have any eggs for sale? I just came from a boat which we have anchored in the cove, and I thought that you might have some eggs you could sell us.”

The woman nodded slowly. “Oh, eggs, certainly! Step in, young man, and I’ll wrap you up some.”

She stepped back from the doorway and Don entered. He found himself in a kitchen, which was furnished with a rickety table, three chairs, a couch and a sink and stove. The bacon that he had smelled was still sending forth a fascinating odor from the back of the iron stove.

While the old woman stepped out of the room to get the eggs Don noticed that although it was broad daylight all of the shades had been pulled down, creating a semi-gloom which he thought quite unnecessary. Three doors opened from the kitchen into other rooms, he also noticed. It seemed to him that the old lady was gone an unnecessary length of time, when she returned, but without any package.

“They are in the next room, young man,” she said, going to the stove. “Pick out as many as you want of ’em.” With her thumb she pointed to one of the doors which opened from the kitchen.

Wondering a bit, Don pushed the door open and stepped into a large room, which had evidently at one time been the dining room of the house. It too was almost dark, and a big table took up the center. He looked around but saw no eggs. He turned to the door again.

“Where are—” he began, but got no further. The door back of him went shut with a bang, and he heard a bolt shot. He tried the knob, to find that he was locked in and a prisoner.

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