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without claws. I heard Timothy splashing around down by the surf and knew he was pulling the raft up as far as he could get it.
    A moment later, puffing hard, he flopped down beside me. He said, “Cotch me breath, den I will tour d’islan’, an’ select a place for d’camp.…”
    He put Stew Cat into my lap.
    “Camp?” I asked, stroking big Stew.
    Timothy replied, “We mebbe ’ere two, tree days. So we be libin’ comfortable.”
    He could tell I was discouraged because we had come to the island and there were no people on it. He said confidently, “We be rescue, true. Before d’night, I build a great fire pile o’ brush an’ wood. So d’nex’ aircraft dat fly ovah, we set it off.”
    “Where are we, Timothy? Near Panama?”
    He answered slowly, “I cannot be sure, young bahss. Not veree sure.”
    “But you said you knew about the banks and the cays that are near the banks.” I wondered if he knew anything, really, or if he was just a stupid old black man.
    Timothy said, “Lissen, I know dat many banks an’ cays are roun’ fifteen north an’ eighty long. Dere is Roncador an’ Serranno; Quito Sueño an’ Serranillaan’ Rosalind; den dere is Beacon an’ North Cay. Off to d’wes’, somewhere, is Providencia an’ San Andrés …” He paused a moment and then said, “Far ’way, up dere, I tink, is d’Caymens, an’ den Jamaica.”
    “But you are not sure of this island?”
    Timothy answered gravely, “True, I am not sure.”
    “Do the schooners usually come close by here?” I asked.
    Again very gravely, Timothy said, “D’mahn who feeshes follows d’feesh. Sartainly, d’feesh be ’ere. I be seein’ wid my own self eyes.”
    I kept feeling that Timothy was holding something back from me. It was the tone of his voice. I’d heard my father talk that way a few times. Once, when he didn’t want to tell me my grandfather was about to die; another time was when a car ran over my dog in Virginia.
    Of course, both times happened when I was younger. Now, my father was always honest with me, I thought, because he said that in the end that was better. I wished Timothy would be honest with me.
    Instead he got up to take a walk around the cay, saying he’d be back in a few minutes. Then Stew Cat wandered away. I called to him but he seemed to be exploring too. Realizing that I was alone on the beach I became frightened.
    I knew how helpless I was without Timothy. First I began calling for Stew Cat but when he didn’treturn I began shouting for Timothy. There was no answer. I wondered if he’d fallen down and was hurt. I began to crawl along the beach and ran head on into a clump of low hanging brush.
    I sat down again, batting at gnats that were buzzing around my face. Something brushed against my arm, and I yelled out in terror. But I heard a meow and knew it was only Stew Cat. I reached for him and held him tight until I heard brush crackling and sang out, “Timothy?”
    “Yes, young bahss,” he called back from quite a distance.
    When he was closer, I said harshly, “Never leave me again. Don’t you ever leave me again!”
    He laughed. “Dere is nothin’ to fear ’ere. I walked roun’ d’whole islan’, an’ dere is nothin’ but sea grape, sand, a few lil’ lizzard, an’ dose palm tree …”
    I repeated, “Never leave me alone, Timothy.”
    “All right, young bahss, I promise,” he said.
    He must have been looking all around, for he said, “No wattah ’ere, but ’Tis no problem. We still ’ave wattah in d’kag, an’ we will trap more on d’firs’ rain.”
    Still believing he wasn’t telling me everything, I said, “You were gone a long time.”
    He answered uneasily, “Thirty minutes at mos’. D’islan’ is ’bout one mile long, an’ a half wide, shaped like d’melon. I foun’ a place to make our camp, up near d’palm. ‘Twill be a good place for a lookout. D’rise is ’bout forty feet from d’sea.”
    I nodded, then said, “I’m hungry,