“That’s generous, considerin’ our fuss about you fellers fishin’ in that brook,” said Simpson. “You must be the right sort, arter all.” “What the dud-dickens were you doing out there in that boat?” questioned Springer. “That’s what I’d like to know.” He was not the only one who felt curiosity concerning that point. “Why,” answered Simpson, “I was comin’ back after deliverin’ some pertaters, onions and other truck to Mr. Granger. We keep him supplied with garden stuff. He’s good pay, and prompt.” “Oh, I see,” nodded Rodney. “But you seemed to be making for this camp.” “I was. I saw the storm comin’, and this was the nearest shelter; so, for all of our row, I thought I’d take a chance that you’d let me crawl under kiver here. Kinder nervy, wasn’t it?” he concluded, with a grin. “Oh, I think we’d let you in,” said Stone. “But why didn’t you dud-douse your sail when you saw the wind coming?” asked Phil. “If you’d pulled it down and used your oars, you’d bub-been all right.” “Didn’t have any oars, nothing but a paddle, and I was using that to steer with. This is the first time I ever tried a sail. You see, it was pretty hard work paddlin’ that punt across the lake and back, so I decided to rig up a sail to help along. I thought I’d make shore before the wind hit me hard enough to do any damage. Bad judgment, I own up.” “It was,” agreed the Texan. “How often do you carry garden stuff across to Granger?” “Oh, two or three times a week.” “What do you know about him?” questioned Piper, his interest seeming suddenly sharpened. “He was over here to call on us yesterday. What’s he doing around here?” “Rusticating for his health, and writing.” “Writing?” “Yep.” “What’s he writing?” “Stories. Don’t you know about it? He’s one of them fellers that write stories for the papers and magazines. Funny sort of business to get paid for, ain’t it? But he says he gets paid, and he always has plenty of money.” “Ah!” breathed Sleuth. “The mystery of Mr. Granger is solved. Now I understand why it is that he possesses such a vivid imagination and is so remarkably clever in spinning yarns and filling in the little details and touches. A writer of fiction, eh? Ha, ha, Mr. Granger; you’re found out.” “But,” reminded Springer, suddenly recalling their experience upon Spirit Island, which had temporarily been forgotten because of the exciting adventure that had followed, “it doesn’t seem to me that there was much fiction abub-bout some of the stuff he tut-told us. Say, Simp, do people around here say that Spirit Island is haunted?”