"You're welcome, Jemmy," he said gravely. "Help yourself."

"Begorra!" growled the Irishman, "ye might have kept thim dry."

"That's a good word!" exclaimed Mr. MacMasters, briskly, struggling to rise. "We all need to get dry. I have matches in a bottle in my pocket, and the bottle didn't get broken. Come on and find some dry wood. We'll have a fire. We may have to camp out here till morning."

"Oh, Mr. MacMasters!" urged Whistler, who was loosening himself likewise from the rope. "Let us look for the fellows who were on the raft first."

"Shout for them," advised the ensign. "But don't worry if they do not answer at once. This is a big piece of land, this island."

Whistler and Torry shouted loudly; but after fifteen minutes they were hoa.r.s.e, and the wind seemed to blow their voices back into their teeth.

"Save your breath to cool your porridge," advised Jemmy. "You're wastin'

it. If ye shout from now till doomsday ye won't bring them back if they're drowned. And if they are all right we'll find them safe and sound."

That was sensible; but it did not make Phil and Al any the less anxious regarding Frenchy and Ikey. The younger lads had always been in their care, and the situation looked serious.

Whistler and Torry knew they were expected to help gather wood, and so they gave up shouting and followed Rosy and the others toward the forest. The whole island, as far as they had seen, was forest-covered.

There had been a heavy fall of rain that day, and to find dry fuel was not an easy task. While they were thus engaged the two boys came upon an opening in the trees. In the dusk it seemed that the opening was the beginning of a well-tramped path, leading inland.

Whistler called to Mr. MacMasters to show him this sign of human occupancy of their refuge. Before the ensign arrived at the spot Torry made a second discovery.

"Look who's here!" called the boy in a low voice. "Here's a Man Friday, sure enough!"

There was a light approaching through the forest path. It was a torch, and before long the wavering brand revealed a strange figure--no Man Friday but, as Whistler whispered, a Woman Friday!

She was a peculiar looking being, indeed, dressed in a single loose flowing garment, which covered her from neck to ankles. She was barefooted and bareheaded, her iron-gray hair tossed about her weather-beaten face in wild elflocks.

Her eyes were as brilliant as coals. Either she was not right in her mind or she a.s.sumed that manner. At first she merely glowered at the two boys and the Navy officer, and said nothing in reply to the latter's queries.

Her hands and fingers were gnarled from hard work. She looked as tough as bale wire, to quote Torry.

When she finally spoke her voice was as deep and coa.r.s.e as a man's. She said:

"You-uns was blowed up in yon channel. And you lost your boat, ain't you?"

"Crickey!" gasped Torry to Whistler. "She's a German--a German with a southern accent! What do you know about that?"

Meanwhile Mr. MacMasters was interrogating her to some purpose.

"Have you seen others of our party?" he asked. "There were fourteen men and boys on a raft."

"Ain't seen no stranger befo' to-day, but you-uns," she declared. Her eyes seemed as lidless as a snake's. They did not blink at all.

"Then how did you know that our steamer was blown up?" the ensign queried.

"Old Mag knows a heap other folks don't know," croaked the woman.

The rest of the party came up and heard this statement. Jemmy gave her one look and crossed his fingers.

"She's a witch, and the banshees do her bidding," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

"Well," said Mr. MacMasters, much puzzled, "is there any place where we can get dry--and get some food?"

"I'll take you all to my cabin," she said. "That's what I come for."

She turned around abruptly and strode back along the path. There seemed nothing for the castaways to do but to follow her. But they certainly did discuss the queer woman in whispers while they kept on her trail.

"She's a witch sure enough," repeated Jemmy. "Sure you kin see that easy from the cut of her jib. The ensign had better have no doin's with her.

Maybe she'll charm the whole of us with her evil eye."

The island was half a mile or more across. It was almost dark by the time the party of castaways with their strange leader came out upon the other sh.o.r.e.

Here the sound between the islands and the mainland was mist-enshrouded, and it was evident that a nasty night had shut down.

Whistler and Torry were terribly anxious about their friends who had been on the life raft.

However, they could not start off alone to hunt for Michael Donahue and Ikey Rosenmeyer. They were just as much under Mr. MacMasters' orders ash.o.r.e as they were at sea.

They had confidence in the ensign's judgment, too. They believed he would make a search for the rest of their party just as soon as it was practicable.

The cabin to which the woman led them was a large log hut of only one room, but with a number of bunks, built in two tiers, along the walls.

At one end was an open hearth and chimney and arrangements for cooking.

A long table and some rough-hewn benches were in the middle of the open s.p.a.ce.

It was more like a barracks than a home; and from the ancient and fishy smell about the place, the party from the battleship was sure that it had not long since housed fishermen and their nets.

Mr. MacMasters and most of the others turned in at once for a nap; but Whistler Morgan was much too anxious to sleep. The old woman who called herself "Mag" went to work at once to prepare a meal, and the boy offered to help her.

He peeled the vegetables and cut corn from the cob for a sort of Brunswick stew which she prepared. Mag put into it a rabbit, a pair of squirrels and a guinea fowl, the neck of which she wrung and then skinned and cleaned in a most skilful manner.

While she was thus engaged she talked to Whistler. The boy noted, as his chum had, that she arranged her spoken sentences much as Germans do who are not well drilled in English. Yet she had the southern drawl and accent.

"I know whar yo' boys come from," she advanced almost at once. "Yo' are from the _Kennebunk_ battleship--and she's a fur ways from here."

"You have seen the rest of our crowd, then!" cried Whistler earnestly, "haven't you, Missus?"

"No, no!" the old hag said, wagging her head. "Old Mag sees strange sights and knows more'n most folks. Oh, yes! Your little steamboat was blowed up by a big bomb in yon channel."

"It was blown up by a Hun mine," declared Whistler bitterly.

The old woman's eyes flashed at him threateningly. "What yo' mean by 'Hun'? Them that put that bomb there is just as good as yo' folks.

I ain't got no use fo' Yankees yet."

"You don't call yourself a Southerner, do you?" asked the boy curiously.

"What am I then?"

"You're German. At least, your folks were," Whistler declared with conviction.