I suppose other
people may have discovered it before, but as I have seen no proof of
this I am not bound to believe it. We named it Racket Island, having
found on the beach an old tennis racket, which had been washed there by
the waves from no one knows where. The island is not more than half a
mile long, with a very irregular coast. The other end of it, you see, is
pretty well wooded. We stayed here for three days, sleeping in our boat;
and so far as solitude is concerned, we might as well have been on a
desert island in the midst of the Pacific. Now I propose that we do the
same thing, and stay for three days, or three weeks, or as long as you
please. This is the finest season of the year for camping out, and we
can moor the boat securely, and cook and sleep on board of it. There is
plenty of sand and there is plenty of shade, and I hope you will like
it."
"I do!" I cried. "On Racket Island let us settle!"
For two days I experienced a sort of negative enjoyment. If I could not
be at home dictating to my late secretary, or, better still, looking at
her, as she sat close to the grating, reading to me, this was the next
best thing I could do. I could walk over the island; I could sail around
it; I could watch Walkirk fish; I could lie on the sand, and look at the
sky; and I could picture Sylvia with her hair properly arranged, and
attired in apparel suited to her.
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