158 OVER ON THE ISLAND

grand stories we’re missing. Tom the Smuggler! Heavens! And the Indian’s Revenge! . . . Hand me my blouse.”

The voices had ceased with the first few drops of rain on our window sill, but we dressed hurriedly, and raced down to the street.

They were gone!

\Ve walked the street and made inquiries. We hunted, but we never found them. And Tom the Smuggler, and the Indian’s revenge and the castaways remain only a haunting question mark in our minds. Who were they? When did they live? And what did they do? We came back to our room dripping from the shower and completely disappointed.

“That curly-headed one . . ., ” the voice below the window was lowered.

We reached simultaneously for the flower—pot, but the voices moved on with their owners out of our sight and hearing.

It grew dark slowly. The voices and the footsteps in the street grew fewer and fewer. Childish voices were stilled. The cars with their blinding eyes passed on still, but hurriedly. Hilarious voices and strains of “Sweet Adeline” floated back to us. Over the harbour the first bright star twinkled uncertainly and then went out. It reappeared suddenly and blinked on the scores of little fishing craft dotting the shore. Far out a lonely sea-gull wheeled in the air as if lost. And night came on.

There were some very eccentric characters on the Island in the good old days. One resided at Morell, a few miles from St. Peter’s. Despite his eccentricity, he was a member of the Provincial Legislature for King’s County. He absented himself from his duties