"Well, that's funny," I said. "How did it get there? There must be someone on the island." "Oh, no," said Tommy. "Why, I had a card from old stick-in-the-mud only yesterday saying that it was all clear. There's probably another boat of some kind in the shed." He took the key out of his pocket, and thrusting it into the lock, flung open the door. The place was as empty as a barn. Mortimer laughed. "Your aged friend seems to be a bit of a humorist, Tommy." "There must be someone there," I said. "Most likely it's the gardener. Let's go outside and give him a hail." We stepped out on to the bank, where Tommy let off a vigorous yell, while I played an impressive voluntary on the horn. "That ought to bring him out of his shell," observed Mortimer with approval. As a matter of fact, it did nothing of the kind. The island remained as blissfully untroubled as the garden of Proserpine. "Try again," suggested Mortimer encouragingly and we repeated our efforts with the same result. "I'm getting fed up with this," broke out Tommy. "There's only one thing to do, and that's to swim across and fetch the boat." "What a pity we haven't got a salmon rod," I remarked. "We might kill two birds with one stone." "Don't you worry," retorted Tommy. "We'll try that later." He stripped off his clothes, and going to the edge of the bank, inspected the water. "Seems clear enough," he observed; "here goes." There was a mighty splash, and he disappeared from view, emerging a few moments later well out in the river. Mortimer and I gave him an encouraging cheer, and then watched him with some anxiety as he ploughed his way across the strongly running current. It seemed at first as though he would be swept past the island, but, with a big effort, he just managed to get clear of the stream in time and clutch an overhanging bough some way below the landing-stage. Then he drew himself out, and answering our hail with a triumphant wave of the hand, picked his way gingerly along the bank to where the boat was tethered. Unhitching the rope, he climbed in, and with a few strong pulls, sculled back across the river. "Bravo, Leander!" sung out Mortimer, as the boat bumped up against the bank. "How are you feeling after your great effort?" "Deuced sore," returned Tommy, shipping his oars and stepping out on to the grass. "That seat's as hard as a millstone." "Never mind," I said consolingly. "You'll be too busy cooking the dinner to want to sit down. What shall we do with the car?" "Oh, run her into the boat-house," said Tommy. "There's plenty of room there. And then you might shove the grub into the boat." Mortimer and I carried out his instructions. With the expenditure of considerable energy and language, we trundled that decayed scrap-iron into the shed, and then began to transfer its contents to the bottom of the dinghy. By this Tommy had resumed his clothes and come to our assistance.