laundry basket. But water held no terrors for Johnny, so, late the following afternoon, he pushed the Tub into the sea and headed for shore.

“You came! How grand!” Mildred Kennedy came racing down a palm-lined path to greet him.

She wore an orange-colored smock, and there was flour on the hand she held out in greeting.

“I’m making cookies,” she confided.

“Sounds great!” Johnny grinned.

She led him to a broad, screened porch where a bearded giant unwound himself from a deep, comfortable chair to meet him.

“This is grandfather.” Real pride shone in the girl’s eyes. “He’s been a beach-comber for thirty years. That’s a record!”

“Now, child,” the old man drawled, “don’t you go bragging on me.

“Have a chair,” he directed Johnny.

“My cookies will burn. I’ll have to hurry,” said the girl. “Grandfather—you tell him about those spies.”

“Spies? Oh, yes. Those European fellows.” The old man’s face darkened. “I’ve been preaching against ’em for mighty nigh twenty years. Mebbe longer than that, I reckon. You see, Mr. Thompson—”

“Please call me Johnny,” said the boy. “I’m not used to the ‘Mister’.”

“All right, Johnny. That’s what it shall be. You see, Johnny, these islands were once a French colony. The French made slaves of the natives. They brought in a lot more slaves and before long, there were many more slaves than there were Frenchmen. So the natives polished up their machetes, started poundin’ their Voodoo drums, and drove the Frenchmen off the islands. This has been a republic ever since.

“But spies, now,” his voice dropped. “How’d you get to thinkin’ o’ spies?”

“Your granddaughter told me there were spies. And there’s been a green arrow—an arrow of light—on the hill at night, and another on the water. It’s sort of mysterious.”

“A green arrow of light,” the old man repeated. “That’s what Mildred was telling me. Strange that I never saw it.”

“You couldn’t,” said Johnny, “unless you were on the water. It’s near the middle of the island, and up high.”

“There’s a place up there built of stone, half castle—half prison,” Kennedy said, thoughtfully. “Some Frenchman built it, thinking he could hold out against the natives. Well, he couldn’t, and now the natives think it’s haunted. Won’t go near it. It’s a long way up a terrible trail.

“But those spies, now,” he added thoughtfully. “They may be using it for a hideout and signal tower. They stop at nothing.”

The old man rose, circled the porch like a prowling tiger, then returned to his seat.

“These natives,” he went on, “are a simple people. They can’t run a country. They found it out soon enough. So did these other people, these Europeans. I won’t name the country as you’ll learn it soon enough. Those Europeans came here and began boring in, just as they do everywhere. You’ll find them in every South American republic and every island of the sea. They’re robbers, spies, traitors!” His voice rose. “They rob the people, and at the same time plot the overthrow of all governments but their own.

“Young man!” Mr. Kennedy left his chair with surprising vigor. “Did you ever take a good look at the map, and think how important this Caribbean Sea is?”

“No, I—”

“Come here. Have a look!”

They stood before a large wall map. “Look at it,” Kennedy insisted. “Plentiful islands with Central America on the west. A score of wonderful harbors. Suppose those people took possession of these islands. Look at Haiti! A harbor where an entire navy might drop anchor! Yes—and room left for ten thousand seaplanes! Bombers! How would our Atlantic coast—Miami, Charleston, New York, Boston—how would they look, after those planes had been raiding from this base for a week, if there were war. And who says there won’t be!

“You saw a light on the water!” He whirled around.

“Yes! Low down! A green arrow of lights, that flashed.”

“‘Low down’!—I should say they were!” The old man grimaced. “Spies!” he muttered. “Since our Marines left the islands—we took control during the World War, you know—these islands have been nests of spies! Something should be done about it. But these natives sleep on—and Uncle Sam doesn’t care to interfere. And yet I’m beginning to hope he will—before it is too late!” His words trailed off as he resumed his seat.

“These people may call themselves beach-combers,” Johnny thought to himself. “Perhaps they are, in a way! But they’re grand folks.”

The house, which he presumed had been built with native labor, was made of massive, hardwood logs. There was no glass in the broad windows, but bamboo “screens,” which could be let down at night. Mosquito-net canopies were hung over the beds to keep out insects. Most tropical houses are like that.

Behind the house were orchards—grapefruit, oranges, bananas. And down in the flat land by the shore, sugar cane was growing.

“We cut it out of the wilderness, the natives and I,” the old man rumbled, in response to Johnny’s polite inquiry. “They’re quite wonderful, these natives—once you come to understand them.

“Of course,” his brow darkened, “some of them can’t be trusted. Those men, those Europeans—” his tone was bitter, “have corrupted them. Yes, and robbed them, too! They pay little for their produce, wild rubber, chicle, wild coffee. And they charge the natives high prices for cheap goods. They get the people deeply in debt to them, and then make slaves of them.

“That,” he sighed, “was why we bought a trading schooner, Mildred and I. We wanted to give the people of our small island a chance. We were doing it, too!” He struck the table a blow with his massive fist. “By George! We were doing it!

“But our boat’s on the bottom now!” His voice fell. “Our natives took her out in a storm, and she sprang a leak.”

“Yes, I know. Mildred told me.” Johnny was wondering whether some treacherous native, inspired by the Europeans, had let the water into the Kennedy boat. At the same time he was making a resolve to do all he could to find the boat and help bring it to the surface.

Mildred entered with a great plate of cookies and a pitcher of ice-cold, fruit juice.

“I hope you like them,” she smiled.

Johnny did like them. What was more, as the moments passed he became more and more interested in his new-found friends. They were, he told himself, good, kind, intelligent people—his kind. They would do things, together. He saw himself with the girl, following obscure trails in search of that spy castle whence, perhaps, the green arrow messages came.

“Well,” he sighed at last, “I’ll have to be getting back. It’s been grand, this visit. I hope you’ll let me come back, and that—that we can do things together.” He was looking at the girl.

“Do things? What, for instance?” Her face was serious.

“Lots of things. Things that may help.” He gave her a broad smile. Then—“just a big batch of day-dreams, I guess.”

At that he shook hands with the old man, walked down the broad path with the girl, gripped her hand for an instant, then climbed into his Tub and rowed away.

“Thanks for one grand time,” he called back.

“You’re welcome, and thanks for coming,” was Mildred’s answer. And the hills echoed back, “thanks—thanks.”