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him, “I can’t see.” He kept forgetting that.
    His voice was low when he said, “Yes, young bahss. Dat be true! In all dis harassment wid d’shark, I did forget.”
    Then I felt his hands on my shoulders. He twisted them. “Dat direction, young bahss.”
    Straining to look where he had me pointed, I asked, “Are there any people on it?”
    “ ’Tis a veree smahl islan’, outrageous low.”
    I repeated, “Are there any people on it?” I thought they could contact my father and then send for help.
    Timothy answered honestly, “No, young bahss. No people. People not be libin’ on d’islan’ dat ’as no wattah.”
    No people. No water. No food. No phones. It was not any better than the raft. In fact, it might be worse. “How far away are we?”
    “ ’Bout two mile,” Timothy said.
    “Maybe we should stay on the raft. A schooner will see us, or an airplane.”
    Timothy said positively, “No, we bettah off on lan’, an’ we driftin’ dat way. D’tide be runnin’ wid us.” His voice was happy. He wanted to be off the sea.
    I was certain my father had planes and ships outlooking for us. I said, “Timothy, the Navy is searching for us. I know.”
    Timothy did not answer me. He just said, “ ’Tis a pretty ting, to be sure. I see a white beach, an’ behin’ dat, low sea-grape bushes; den on d’hill, some palm. Mebbe twenty, thirty palm.”
    I was sure he couldn’t even see that far.
    I said, “Timothy, wouldn’t it be better if we stayed on the raft and found a big island with people on it?”
    He ignored me. He said, “Bidin’ d’night, I saw surf washin’ white ovah banks off to port, but did not awaken you, young bahss. But knew we be gettin’ near d’cays.…”
    I said, “I don’t want to go on that island.”
    I don’t think there was anyone on earth as stubborn as old Timothy. There was steel in his voice when he answered, “We be goin’ on dat islan’, young bahss. Dat be true.”
    But he knew how I felt now, because he added, “From dis islan’, we will get help. Be true, I swear.…”

CHAPTER

Seven
    I T SEEMED HOURS but it was probably only one until Timothy said, “Do not be alarm now, young bahss. I am goin’ to jump into d’wattah an’ kick dis raff to d’shore. Widout dat, we’ll pass d’islan’, by-’n’-by.”
    In a moment, I heard a splash on one side of the raft and then Timothy’s feet began drumming the water. I guess he was not afraid of sharks this close in. Soon, he yelled, “Boddam, young bahss, boddam.” His feet had touched sand. In another fewminutes, the raft lurched and I knew it had grounded.
    I listened for sounds from shore, hoping there would be a cheerful “hello,” but there were none. Just the wash of the low surf around the raft.
    Timothy said, “ ’Ere, young bahss, on my shoulders an’ I’ll fetch you to d’lan’.” He helped me to his back.
    I said, “Don’t forget Stew Cat.”
    He laughed back heartily. “One at a time, young bahss.”
    With me on his back, he splashed ashore, and judging from the time it took, the raft wasn’t very far out. Then he lifted me down again.
    “Lan’,” he shouted.
    The warm sand did feel good on my feet, and now I was almost glad that we wouldn’t have to spend another night on the hard, wet boards of the raft.
    He said, “Touch it, young bahss. Feel d’lan’, ’Tis outrageous good.”
    I reached down. The grains of sand felt very fine, almost like powder.
    Timothy said, “ ’Tis a beautiful cay, dis cay. Nevah hab I seen dis cay.” Then he led me to sit under a clump of bushes. He said, “You res’ easy while I pull d’raff more out of d’wattah. We mus’ not lose it.”
    I sat there in the shade, running sand throughmy fingers, wondering where, among all those many islands in the Caribbean, we were.
    Timothy shouted up from the water, “Many feesh ’ere.
Langosta
, too, I b’knowin’. We ros’ dem.”
    Langosta, I knew, was the native lobster, the one