time the party of castaways with their strange leader came out upon the
other shore.

Here the sound between the islands and the mainland was
mist-enshrouded, and it was evident that a nasty night had shut down.
Whistler and Torry were terribly anxious about their friends who had
been on the life raft.

However, they could not start off alone to hunt for Michael Donahue and
Ikey Rosenmeyer. They were just as much under Mr. MacMasters' orders
ashore as they were at sea.

They had confidence in the ensign's judgment, too. They believed he
would make a search for the rest of their party just as soon as it was
practicable.

The cabin to which the woman led them was a large log hut of only one
room, but with a number of bunks, built in two tiers, along the walls.
At one end was an open hearth and chimney and arrangements for cooking.
A long table and some rough-hewn benches were in the middle of the open
space.

It was more like a barracks than a home; and from the ancient and fishy
smell about the place, the party from the battleship was sure that it
had not long since housed fishermen and their nets.

Mr. MacMasters and most of the others turned in at once for a nap; but
Whistler Morgan was much too anxious to sleep. The old woman who called
herself "Mag" went to work at once to prepare a meal, and the boy
offered to help her.

He peeled the vegetables and cut corn from the cob for a sort of
Brunswick stew which she prepared. Mag put into it a rabbit, a pair of
squirrels and a guinea fowl, the neck of which she wrung and then
skinned and cleaned in a most skilful manner.

While she was thus engaged she talked to Whistler. The boy noted, as his
chum had, that she arranged her spoken sentences much as Germans do who
are not well drilled in English. Yet she had the southern drawl and
accent.

"I know whar yo' boys come from," she advanced almost at once. "Yo' are
from the _Kennebunk_ battleship--and she's a fur ways from here."

"You have seen the rest of our crowd, then!" cried Whistler earnestly,
"haven't you, Missus?"

"No, no!" the old hag said, wagging her head. "Old Mag sees strange
sights and knows more'n most folks. Oh, yes! Your little steamboat was
blowed up by a big bomb in yon channel."

"It was blown up by a Hun mine," declared Whistler bitterly.

The old woman's eyes flashed at him threateningly. "What yo' mean by
'Hun'? Them that put that bomb there is just as good as yo' folks.
I ain't got