CHAPTER VI 



OUR ISLANDS 



BY RUTH ROSE 



Bill Merriam was shouting from the foot of 

 the gangway. 



"Hurry up! the boat's ready! Come on!" 



The anchor of the Arcturus had hardly splashed 

 rustily into the placid waters of Gardner Bay when 

 our flock of small boats splashed after it, and most 

 of our land-hungry members eagerly sought for 

 places in them. Soon the steep slope of white beach 

 that fringes this side of Hood Island was dotted 

 with exploring figures, scattering up and down 

 the shore or vanishing into the thick scrub of the 

 crater-side. 



But even after weeks at sea, there were some of 

 us who had decided to forego a shore expedition, at 

 least until next day. During all our cruise I had 

 listened to other people's fish stories, which is not 

 meant in a derogatory sense; I had admired the 

 shapes and colors of the fish caught by others, and 

 had marvelled at the sizes of the ones that got away. 

 But alone of the staff, I had never gone fishing, — 

 not only on this expedition but in all my life. So 

 under the kindly tutelage of Betty Trotter and 



146 



