"On Lost Island?" asked Jerry eagerly.

"No, _off_ Lost Island. A big burly ruffian blew down on us, cussing
a streak, and wouldn't hardly let us get into our boat. Chucked
stones at us all the way across and promised us a mess of birdshot
if we came back. Do you blame us for wanting to lay you out?" It was
Dave's conqueror who spoke.

"If that's what you do on suspicion, I don't want to be around when
you're sure of yourself. My ribs'll be sore for a week."

The boys had been talking excitedly; each one was wrought up over
the fate of poor Tod and this was the only way they were willing to
show their feelings. It was Phil who brought them back to earth.

"Well, fellows," he suggested, "let's get acquainted first, and then
let's see if we can't frame up some way of getting across and going
over that island from end to end. Line up, Scouts, and be
presented."

The Scouts lined up in two columns.

"This is Sid Walmsly, nicknamed 'the worm,' partly because that's
the way we pronounce his name, but mostly because it's a long worm
that has no turn, and Sid says he's always the one to be left out.
You can remember him by the wart on his left knuckle. Next is Dick
Garrett; he's assistant Patrol Leader. This thin, long-drawn-out
morsel of sweet temper is Fred Nelson. We tried to nickname him
"Angel" but he licked everyone that tried it on him. Now comes our
joker, we'd call him Trixie if we dared. His ma calls him Algy