It is a far cry from the savagery of the illicit mountain still to
that consummate luxury of civilization, an ocean-going steam yacht.
Yet, in actual space, the distance between these two extremes was not
great. _The Josephine_, all in snowy white, save for the gleam of
polished brass-work, and flying the pennant of the New York Yacht
Club, glided forth from Norfolk Harbor in serene magnificence on the
same day that _The Bonita_ chugged fussily over the same course. The
yacht was setting out on the second stage of her leisurely pleasure
voyage to Bermuda. The skipper had been instructed to follow the coast
southward as far as Frying Pan Shoals, for the sake of rounding
Hatteras. Afterward, since the weather grew menacing, the craft
continued down the coast to Cape Lookout, where anchor was dropped in
the Harbor of Refuge.

The island that lies there is a long, narrow, barren strip of sand,
dotted thickly with dunes. Only a coarse marsh grass grows, with
dwarfed pines and cedars. In this bleak spot live and thrive droves of
wild ponies, of uncertain ancestry. It was these creatures that just
now held the attention of two persons on the yacht.

Under the awning in the stern, two girls were chatting as they dawdled
over their morning chocolate. The younger and prettier of these was
Josephine Blaise, the motherless daughter of the yacht-owner; the
other was Florence Marlow, her most intimate friend.

"Dad told me I could have the runabout ashore," Josephine was saying,
with a sudden access of animation. "We'll go along the beach, as long
as the going's good, or till we scare up the ponies."

"I do hope we'll see them digging holes in the sand, so as to get
fresh water," Florence exclaimed.

But Josephine was quick to dissent:

"They don't dig for water," she explained, with a superior air. "They
dig the holes in the beach when the tides out, and then the tide comes
in and fills the holes, of course. When it ebbs, the ponies go around
and pick out the fish, and eat them."

Florence stared disbelievingly.

"Oh, what a whopper!" she cried.

"Captain Hawks told me himself," Josephine asserted, with confidence.
"He knows all about them--he's seen them wild on the island and tame
on the mainland."

"Same ones, probably!" was the tart retort. "I thought the doctor
lied ably, but he's truth itself compared with that hairy skipper of
yours."

Josephine tossed her head.

"We'll run 'em down and observe their habits