Sheila had made all taut and trim inside the cabin. She had plenty
of firewood and sufficient provisions to last her for a time.
About noon she heard the crunch of footsteps on the sand. It was
little John-Ed who first appeared before her eyes. He thrust a
letter into Sheila's hand.
"Dad brought it up from the port this morning, and I got it away
from him. Say," he continued, evidently much disturbed, "he's coming
here."
"Who is coming here--your father?"
"No, no! Not dad. I--I couldn't help it. I didn't tell him. I said
you wanted to play alone here at being shipwrecked, and I was just
like you said--your man Friday."
"Who do you mean?" asked Sheila, greatly agitated. "Not--"
"I bet 'twas that Tunis Latham told him you was here," continued
John-Ed. "Anyway, don't blame me. All I done was to help him down
the path."
He disappeared. Sheila stepped to the door. Cap'n Ira was laboring
over the sands toward the cabin, leaning on his cane, his coat
flapping in the wind and his cap screwed on so tightly that a
hurricane could not possibly have blown it away.
But in addition and aside from the buffeting he had suffered from
the wind, the old man looked much less trim and taut than Sheila had
ever before seen him.
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