But, doggedly, they kept on. There was a hill in about the centre of the island, a hill that would seem to give a good view of the surrounding land.
Blake reached the summit first. He looked about him, and then gazed, steadfastly and earnestly, into a little glade that was below him.
"See anything?" asked Joe, as he panted up after his chum.
"I don't know—I—I" and Blake's voice trembled. "Are those tents down there, Joe, or—or is it only mist?"
"They're tents all right, old man! Big tents, too! Say, there are people here!" he fairly shouted.
"Come on!" cried Blake, starting down the slope.
They fairly ran down the hill. A little way from the tents the party of refugees came to a halt. Blake rubbed his eyes, as though to brush away clinging cobwebs. He stared at a girl who came from one of the tents.
"Birdie Lee!" he gasped.
"Blake Stewart!" came the surprised answer. "You here!"
And the two stared wonderingly at each other.
