"Sometimes they use blood," said Pee-wee. "I can make ink from onions
too--invisible ink. Shall I make some?"
"I thought you were going to make a hunter's stew," said Brownie.
"Go ahead," said Roly Poly, "you make the hunter's stew--it won't be
invisible, will it?"
"It will when we get through with it," said Billy.
"And while you're making the stew, Rip will write the letter and the
first one of us that goes ashore will mail it."
The letter which Townsend Ripley wrote to the dredging company asking
permission to use the old scow surmounted by a luxurious desert island
was very funny, but it was not nearly as funny as the hunter's stew
which Pee-wee made.
Their minds now free as to their rights (at least, for the time being)
they sprawled about under the little tree as the afternoon sunlight
waned and partook of the weird concoction which Pee-wee cooked in the
dishpan over the rough fireplace which they had constructed. And if
Pee-wee was not the equal of his friend Roy Blakeley in the matter of
cooking, he was at least vastly superior to him in the matter of
eating, and as he himself observed, "Gee whiz, eating is more important
than cooking anyway."
It was pleasant sitting about on this new and original desert island
which combined all the attractions of wild life with substantial
safety. Only its overlapping edges could wash away and as these melted
and disappeared the island gradually assumed a square and orderly
conformation; its bleak and lonely coast formed a tidy square and
looked like some truant back yard off on a holiday.
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