"Is there any fresh water?" asked Tim Muldoon. "I'm as dry as a fish!" "There is a good spring near here," announced Pedro. "Then we'll build a fire and camp out!" declared Paul. "Being marooned isn't so bad, after all; eh Dick?" "Maybe not," agreed the young millionaire, as he helped the others gather fuel for the fire. Soon a cheerful blaze was roaring on the beach, fed by pieces of driftwood which Widdy brought from various points. The leaping flames illuminated the place, and cast dancing, fantastic shadows of the little party upon the sands. "Frank, you get some water," ordered Dick, "and then see what you can find to boil it in. Pedro says they left him some coffee." "Yes, and a few cooking utensils," added the Cuban. "I think there is also a coffee pot." "Good!" cried Dick. "Beeby, drop your camera and get busy. What do you think I'm paying you for--to pose as a living picture?" "I was going to take a snapshot of the fire," pleaded the fat lad. "Make a snapshot of yourself bringing up more wood," ordered Dick, with a laugh. "We'll need it before morning. Tim, you and Paul and Henry get busy on enlarging the shelter. There is quite an addition to your family, Pedro, since last night." "Yes, but there will be room for all," said the elder Cuban, cheerfully. Nothing mattered to him, now that his son was found. And so the marooned party, gathered about the fire, took a happier view of their situation as they bustled about, trying to get something to eat, while Widdy piled the wood on the blaze, and the two dogs played about in the sand, as if the whole affair was arranged for their especial benefit. CHAPTER XXVII DICK FINDS HIS RELATIVES It can not be said that the supper was a very elaborate one. They ate canned corned beef and crackers, and drank coffee from clam shells and empty tin cans, but Dick said it tasted as good, if not better, than the most complete meal Hans, the cook, had ever served to them on the yacht. "It sure does," agreed Beeby, with a sigh of satisfaction. "I'll have a little more of that fricasseed corned-beef on toast, with a bit of mushroom sauce on the side, if you don't mind, old man," and he passed his clam shell to Dick. "You'll have nothing of the kind," announced the young millionaire, peering into the frying pan, in which the beef had been warmed, "for the simple reason, Beeby, that it's all gone." "Ah, a very good and sufficient reason," admitted the stout cadet. "Then I'll fill up on water. There's plenty of that." They sat about the campfire after the meal, discussing over and over again the strange disappearance of the launch and yacht, but being unable to come to any conclusion regarding the matter. Dick's theory, that some criminals (who were either concealed on the island, or who had been on their craft, hidden in some bay) had sneaked out to the yacht when the young millionaire and his chums were prospecting inland, was generally accepted.