CHAPTER THREE
rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One
thing was certain, there was no television in there.
“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clap-
ping his hands together. “And this gentleman’s kindly agreed to
lend us his boat!”
A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a
rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray
water below them.
“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, “so all
aboard!”
It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down
their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what
seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slip-
ping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.
The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind
whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace
was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.
Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and
four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just
smoked and shriveled up.
“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said cheer-
fully.
He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody
stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail.
Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn’t cheer him up
at all.
As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray
from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce
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