The letter which Townsend Ripley wrote to the dredging company asking permission to use the old scow surmounted by a luxurious desert island was very funny, but it was not nearly as funny as the hunter's stew which Pee-wee made. Their minds now free as to their rights (at least, for the time being) they sprawled about under the little tree as the afternoon sunlight waned and partook of the weird concoction which Pee-wee cooked in the dishpan over the rough fireplace which they had constructed. And if Pee-wee was not the equal of his friend Roy Blakeley in the matter of cooking, he was at least vastly superior to him in the matter of eating, and as he himself observed, "Gee whiz, eating is more important than cooking anyway." It was pleasant sitting about on this new and original desert island which combined all the attractions of wild life with substantial safety. Only its overlapping edges could wash away and as these melted and disappeared the island gradually assumed a square and orderly conformation; its bleak and lonely coast formed a tidy square and looked like some truant back yard off on a holiday. What it lost in rugged grandeur it made up in modern neatness and seemed indeed a desert island with all improvements. Nestling within its stalwart and water-tight timbers it presented a scene of varied beauty. Grasshoppers disported gayly upon its rugged surface, occasionally leaping inadvertently into the surrounding surf and kicking their ungainly legs in the sparkling water. A pair of adventurous robins that had refused to desert the fugitive peninsula were chirping in the little blossom-laden tree and one of them came down and perched upon the traffic sign to prune his feathers before retiring. Savage beetles roamed wild over the isle, and wild angleworms, disturbed by the late upheaval, squirmed about in quest of new homes. The vegetation on the island appeared in gay profusion, reminding one of the Utopian scenes of fragrant beauty which delighted the eyes of the bold explorers who first landed on the shores of Florida. Yellow dandelions dotted the greensward, purple violets peeped up through the overgrown grass, and a rusty tin can, memento of some prehistoric fisherman perhaps, lay near the shore. Not even the geometrical perfection of the island detracted from its primitive and rugged beauty. True, it had no bays or wooded coves where pirates might have lurked, and it was fickle to any one spot. But wheresoever its wanton fancy took it the dying sunlight flickered down through the little tree and glazed the spotless blossoms so full of promise that clustered above the little band of hardy adventurers. Before they had finished their repast--a repast as strange and surprising as the island itself--they had drifted half a mile upstream with the incoming tide. Here the sturdy underpinning of the desert isle caught upon a tiny reef and the island swung slowly around like a sleepy carrousel and rested from its travels.