and, however, although some say
he had. I fancy it's because any ghost-haunted spot always attracts all
the mysterious stories told in its neighborhood."

All this was interesting to Manson, and not only added a charm to all
the islands he had visited, but made him especially anxious to explore
this one.

"Do not laugh at me," he said when Frank had finished his recital, "for
expecting to see Indians paddling canoes among your islands when your
people down here believe all the ghost stories they do. My fancy is only
the shadow of what was certainly a reality not so very long ago; while
your stories are spook yarns of the most hobgoblin shape. I want to go
to Pocket Island, however," he added a little later, reflectively, "and
hear that mysterious bellowing anyhow."

That evening when the sloop was riding quietly at anchor in the little
Spoon Island harbor and the full moon just rising, round and red, out of
the sea, Obed brought his banjo on deck and away out there, miles from
any other island, and mingling with the murmur of the ocean's voice
about this one, there came the strains of old, familiar plantation songs
sung by those three young friends, at peace with all the world and happy
in their seclusion. The gulls had gone to rest, the sea almost so, for
the ground swell only washed the island's sandy shore and idly rocked
the sloop as she rode secure at anchor. The moon and the man in it both
smiled, and when Manson and Frank, wearied of singing, lived over once
more the battle scenes they had passed through, feeling that never again
could they or would they be called upon to face such danger, it may be
said that they were as near contentment as often comes in life. And if
the droll look of the man in the moon brought back to one a certain
night years before, when, as a bashful boy, he could hardly find courage
to kiss a blue-eyed girl whom he had walked home with, and who had since
become very dear to him, it is not surprising. Neither was it at all
strange, if, when looking seaward, that night, he could see far away in
the broadening path of silvery sheen, a small, dark island; that he
should feel it held a mystery; and that some occult influence had linked
that uncanny place, in some way not as yet understood, with his own past
and future; that it was some link, some tangible spot, some queer
connection between dreams and hopes that might develop into real facts.

While not what is usually called superstitious,