CHAPTER IV 



^^Inagua Is a Queer Little Island*^ 



I STOPPED in amazement staring at the spot where the figures 

 had vanished, and then smiled. No wonder! I was a wild look- 

 ing creature. My clothes were in tatters, torn by the coral from 

 the day before; a battered old hat of disreputable felt lay 

 draped over my head at a rakish angle and two weeks' growth 

 of beard obscured my features. About my neck a dirty blue 

 bandanna hung loosely; I had salvaged it from the sand to keep 

 my neck from burning; and a shredded pair of gray ducks 

 hung in ribbons about my knees. Until this moment I had not 

 been conscious how I looked, so intent had we been on salvag- 

 ing the necessities for our existence and in securing help in 

 time to prevent our equipment from becoming a total loss. I 

 must have looked like a renegade beachcomber. Ugly enough 

 in any case to frighten timid natives. For several moments I 

 remained where I was watching. There was no movement ex- . 

 cept the curve of the waves as they sHd up on the beach in 

 little streamers and the rippling of the beach grasses in the 

 trade winds. 



More sedately I continued. Soon I came up with the tracks, 

 broad bare prints with splayed toes in the damp sand. The 

 tracks led into a clump of mixed palmetto and mangrove. Hesi- 

 tating for a moment I pondered. Idiotically, I wondered what 

 was the correct procedure for approaching natives on an un- 

 known island. Should I say, "Good morning, would you be so 

 kind as to inform me what island I am on?" or would "Pardon 

 me, but I am a shipwrecked mariner," sound better? Both 

 sounded utterly silly but for the moment I could think of 



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