Susan was as quick as she could be. She knew by John’s voice that there was no time to lose. The sail came down in a rush. She gathered it in as well as she could. Then she flashed her torch into the blackness ahead.
“There’s something close here,” she said.
Swallow drifted in smooth water. John put out the oars.
“It’s here,” said Susan. “Close here. Pull, pull your left. It’s a landing stage.”
Swallow bumped softly against wood.
“Hang on to it, whatever it is,” called John. He shipped his oars. Then he scrambled forward. The torch showed the black damp wooden beams of one of the landing stages used by the natives for their rowing boats.
“Hold your torch up, Susan,” he said. “I’m going ashore.”
Susan held up her torch. John was on the landing stage in a moment.
“All right now,” he said. “I’ve got the painter.” He lit his torch, and Susan saw him, as Swallow drifted back, standing on the landing stage and making fast the painter round a post.
“We’re all right here, anyhow,” he said. “Lucky for us not to hit that rock we passed. I wonder which island this is.”
He walked up the landing stage, lighting himself with his torch. Then he came back.
“There’s a notice which says, ‘Private. Landing Forbidden.’ ”
“What are we to do?” said Susan.
“Land,” said Captain John. “At least, land if we want to. The natives are all asleep anyhow. We’ll stay here until there’s a little light. There’s bound