"It will rain on us," remarked Meg nervously. "There isn't any
roof, you know."

Then she blushed. She wondered if Mr. Harley thought they were
selfish to amuse themselves in his tumble-down home, and whether
it was polite of her to mention that the roof was gone.

"We'll have to make a roof," said Mr. Harley capably. "Let's see;
if we take that door and put it across these two barrels, that
will keep the rain off. Here's a piece of oilcloth we can use for
a curtain to shut the lightning out. Now we're as comfy as we
would be in a regular house."

While he spoke, he had lifted what had once been the front door of
his house, placed it across two barrels and draped across the open
side a large square of oilcloth that was cracked and creased in
many places but still waterproof. The barrels were against the one
wall of the house left standing, so that, when all was fixed, the
small shelter was fairly comfortable.

Bobby, feeling in his pocket for a nail to pin the oilcloth more
securely, touched the queer object his shovel had unearthed that
morning.

"Look what I found," he said eagerly, holding out the little
pointed specimen.

"Arrow head," said Mr. Harley. "Indians once lived on this island,
and you're likely to turn those things up most anywhere. Will your
mother be afraid alone in the bungalow?"