today,” he confided, “I couldn’t leave it.” And they paddled away toward the middle island.

“That Ted must be a real guy,” was Stew’s comment.

“You don’t know the half of it. I’ll tell you about it some time.” Jack settled back against the circular side of the raft. “Boy! Am I tired!”

“Take it easy,” Stew advised.

“We’ll have to paddle ten miles at least. A Jap plane may spot us on the way.”

“We don’t really need to paddle at all,” Stew said. “There’s a strong current running toward the islands.”

“How do you know?” Jack sat up.

“While you went back for the violin I threw a stick into the water. It started right for the island.”

“That,” said Jack, “was my whittling stick.”

“Too bad!” Stew said. “But then, there must be a million sticks on our island. Seems to be covered with trees.”

The current was not all that Stew had hoped for. It carried them along at no more than two miles an hour. And the distance was far greater than they had imagined. For several hours they were obliged to paddle beneath hot, tropical skies. Finally, when the sun had gone to rest and the moon had taken up its watch, they found themselves listening to the easy wash of the surf against the mysterious shore.

As they came close it seemed that the island’s one mountain leaned over like a vast giant for a look at them.

“Be just our luck to land close to a native village.” Stew shuddered as they neared the shadowy shores. The moon still was low.

“They might have chickens,” Jack suggested.

“I’ll be content with emergency rations,” Stew decided.

Once Stew imagined that he caught a glimpse of a flicker of light along the shore. “Cannibals,” he whispered.

“Might be worse.” Jack fingered his automatic. “Could be Japs.”

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