In Which We Fold Our Tents

By consent of the lighthouse keeper, we left the Belle Helène moored
at the wharf in the channel, with Williams in charge, while Peterson
and I, towing the tender's sailing skiff, its piratical lateen sail
lowered, started back for our encampment in our long boat. It was only
a half mile or so alongshore around the head of the island, although
we had to keep out a bit to avoid going aground on the flats where the
Belle Helène had come to grief--and had, moreover, to wade ashore
some fifty yards or so, now that the sea was calm, since the keel of
the motor-boat would not admit a closer approach in the shallows.

We found our party all assembled, John having but now issued his
luncheon call; and, such had proved the swift spell of this care-free
life, none expressed much delight at the announcement of my decision
to strike camp and move toward civilization. Helena only looked up
swiftly, but made no comment; and Mrs. Daniver, to my surprise, openly
rebelled at leaving these flesh-pots, where canvasback and terrapin
might be had by shaking the bushes, and where the supply of
ninety-three seemed, after all, not exhausted. Of course, my men had
nothing to say about it, but when it came to my partners and
associates, Lafitte and L'Olonnois, there was open mutiny.

"Why, now," protested L'Olonnois, his lip quivering, "O' course we
don't want to go home. Ain't our desert island all right? Where you
goin' to find any better place 'n this, like to know? Besides"--and
here he drew me to one side--"they's a good reason for not goin' just
yet, Black Bart!"