the hut was not finished for a week, and for seven whole days and nights there was not a drop of rain. then, when at last the pioneer hut stood complete, taut and steady, thickly thatched and masterly in workmanship from framework to roof, the rain began.
just a drop at first, but the scouts had been expecting it; the wind had shifted, and there was likelihood of a steady downpour for some time, as their weather-eyes told them. "it's really rather a chouse, though, just when the hut's ready, isn't it?" grumbled peter, who hated to tear himself away from his newly completed handiwork.
"the weather'll test it, anyway," remarked robin, gazing at the little erection with critical eyes. "now we shall know if the trench is really deep enough to carry away the water without soaking the place through, and whether that way of thatching really answers well, starting to thatch from the bottom and working up, so that the rain may drain off the side of the hut instead of drenching through."
"well, that's one way of looking at it, i suppose," said peter more resignedly.
"and i'll tell you what i think," said jan, "i think it's a very good thing that the rain's begun early, if it had got to come. brownie's got that lumber-room crammed with stuff, and a lot of hard work's got to be done by somebody or other before you boys can sleep there. and you'll have to, to-night, just look at the sky. suppose we heap up the dixies and everything into the new hut, and go straight to the cottage and turn to."
in a very few minutes they had started acting on her suggestions. the rain was coming down now in large steady drops, and there was certainly every likelihood of a drenching night. the boys were not afraid of rain; they would have preferred to test the new hut's weather-proof properties by sleeping there through any weather, but they had given their word, and that was the end of the matter. the dixies were put away safely into the little hut, and the three set off in fairly good spirits for island cottage. after all, they had had a week's camping out already, and probably there were many more days and nights of it ahead for them; they would take one night's rest under a roof with as good a grace as they knew how.
but an afternoon's good hard work lay between them and any possibility of a good night. the upstairs attic was a perfect chaos of muddled lumber; "and has been, my dears, since we came here," said brownie, "fifteen years ago, as i remember well."
"who lived here before you, brownie?" asked robin. "it was a year before i was born, you see, so i don't remember."
"sure, my dear, don't i remember that. 'twas—well, 'twas young hooker, gamekeeper he was, in your grandfather's days, but youngish for the job. i can see him now, a fine upstanding chap he was." the old dame heaved a sigh.
"young, was he? why did he leave then? where is he now?" inquired peter standing still for a minute with an armful of boxes.
"sure, i can't tell you. 'twas dismissed that he was. into disgrace he fell, at the time of all the trouble," said brownie. "same age as master——" she bustled away, muttering to herself.
"same age as who, brownie?" inquired quick-eared jan, who, armed with a duster and a mop, looked quite as busy as she really was.
but the old woman did not appear to hear the question; she made for the door. "you'll be wanting your teas after all the help that you're giving, my dears, and the kettle's not on," she announced, and disappeared down the creaking stair.
"there's certainly a mystery. a—choo!" peter's voice began on an impressive note and finished up with a sneeze. "begorra, what dust, robin! what d'you think it means?"
"i—don't—know." robin's voice sounded abstracted; he was gazing at a photograph that he held in his hand—an old, old faded snapshot of a young man fishing. "i—picked this up when a lot of rubbish fell down," he said; "but—who is it? it's taken on the island by the river, and—it's like dad. but—it's not the same smile. much younger too, of course, but—whoever can it be?"
"a relation, anyway," said jan, peering over his shoulder.
"i'll ask brownie," said peter, and, suiting the action, to the word, he seized the little portrait and made his way downstairs. "i say, who's this?" he inquired; "this man—is it an old picture of dad, brownie, d'you know? because, well, it can't be, and yet——" he stopped and stared. "it's only a snapshot, brownie; it's not a ghost," he continued, "nor a bomb, you know. who is it?—that's all i was asking."
"aye, my dear, i hear right well what you're asking," said the old woman; "i see right well too that it's but a photograph, as you say. he and hooker was always together; 'twas one of hooker's taking, i make no doubt, seeing as it's upstairs still. like david and jonathan, so i've heard folks say, and——"
"but—who is it?" inquired peter, with wonder in his eyes.
"ah, my dear, sure and don't be asking me!" sobbed the old woman.
