sionately against her husband's thin hand.

Tomorrow . . . Tomorrow she must--she _would_ release the pigeon!

CHAPTER XXIV

MAROONED

Six hours later Kon Klayu was cowering in the blasts of the most
terrific storm yet experienced by the adventurers. The fearful
velocity of the wind and rain made it impossible for Kayak Bill to keep
his tent erected, and in the middle of the night he was forced to move
his bedding into Jean's and Lollie's room, where the sisters helped him
screen himself off by tacking up a tarpaulin.

After Jean had slipped back into her bunk she was surprised to hear her
sister discussing, almost wildly she thought, the possibility of a
bird's flying against such a gale; and after everyone else had settled
down again for the night she could hear Ellen pacing the floor of the
living-room. Poor Ellen, thought the girl, she was all unstrung over
Shane's accident and frightened at the thought of blood poisoning.

But Shane was feeling much better next morning, though he kept to his
bed all day and for several days after. He was unusually silent,
realizing, perhaps for the first time, the gravity of the situation,
for the storm did not blow itself out in three or six days, as storms
had always done before. It lasted twelve days and increased in
violence until near the end.

During this great gale Jean sought her bunk early each evening and lay
there between sleep and wakefulness listening to the wind and sea. She
was thankful that this was not a snow storm, since snowfall on Kon
Klayu did not come until later, owing to the proximity of the Japan
Current, but she found herself concerned for Harlan alone in his Hut on
the other side of the Island. When it became apparent that Shane's cut
was healing as it should, the girl found her thoughts lingering on
Gregg. She missed him more than she cared to admit, even to herself.

Before Shane's accident with the shotgun it had fallen to Gregg's lot
to hunt the ducks and geese which were by now an important part of
their food. There was little ammunition and every shot must be made to
tell. With the make-shift shotgun it was impossible to hit anything on
the wing, and though it was evident that Harlan's sporting instincts
revolted against slipping up and pot-shooting birds on the water, the
scarcity of shells compelled him to do it. Kayak Bill flatly refused
to handle anything but his .45, confessing to a casual scorn for what
he termed a "s