Free The Return of the Dragon by Rebecca Rupp Page B

departed the island, I saved the photograph as a reminder to myself never to be so careless again! It was a narrow escape and one that I have never forgotten!
    I wish I could be there to help, but I am still incapacitated with my broken ankle! The doctor tells me that it will be at least another four weeks before I can attempt to walk on it! (I have done some experiments privately, and I suspect that he is correct.) In any case, I trust that you will be able to handle things on your own, in the best interests of F.
    With fondest regards,
    Aunt Mehitabel
    “What a nasty person,” Sarah Emily said. “That Anna. Sneaking around like that. And lying.”
    “The worst is that she wanted to capture Fafnyr,” Zachary said.
    “I don’t think the Awful Warning helps us much, though,” Hannah said. “We didn’t invite Mr. King here. He just came.”
    “Maybe he’ll go away,” Sarah Emily said hopefully. “Now that he’s got Aunt Mehitabel’s letter.”
    The children were sitting on the bed in Hannah’s room. Buster, looking like a furry balloon with a smirk on its face, was comfortably asleep in Sarah Emily’s lap. Zachary was tinkering with his tape recorder, which hadn’t worked properly since Ben had jerked it out of his hands and dropped it on the sand. Something inside it seemed to be stuck. When Zachary pressed the PLAY button, it buzzed like a sick bumblebee or made sad little whirring sounds.
    “Maybe he already left,” said Hannah, looking brighter.
    “Let’s take a picnic to the north end of the island. We can see if the yacht is still there.”
    “I give up,” Zachary said, tossing the tape recorder into a bureau drawer. “Let’s go.”
    Mrs. Jones packed a picnic basket, stuffed with all their favorites: hard-boiled eggs, pickles, peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, and oatmeal cookies. Cheerfully, they set off across the island, Zachary in the lead, wearing his backpack, Hannah and Sarah Emily swinging the picnic basket between them. Hannah began to sing a song about how she loved to go a-wandering.
    “I can’t wait to get there and see that boat gone,” said Zachary.
    They turned right and cut through the fields, heading for the beach, just south of the place where Mr. King’s company had made their camp. They climbed over a tumble of rounded rocks — Sarah Emily said they looked like baby hippopotamuses — and then scrambled to the top of a sandy dune, overgrown with scrub and grass, that sloped down to the beach. The tents were gone, but the great white yacht still rode at anchor off the shore.
    “I knew it was too good to be true,” Zachary said. He dropped down on the sand. “He never gives up, just like everybody says.”
    “Oh, come on, Zachary,” said Hannah. “I think it’s going to be all right. He got Aunt Mehitabel’s letter and he’s packing up. They took down the tents, didn’t they? I bet he’ll be gone by this afternoon.”
    “I hope so,” Sarah Emily said.
    Zachary looked skeptical. “We might as well eat,” he said.
    As the children finished the last bites of their sandwiches, a figure appeared at the rail of the yacht’s upper deck. It climbed down the metal ladder attached to the boat’s side and dropped into a waiting motorboat. There was the sputter of a starting motor, and the boat turned in a wide smooth curve and headed toward the shore. As it grew closer, the children could see that the driver was Mr. J.P. King. When he was within hailing distance, he cut the motor and raised one hand, signaling to the children on the beach. “Permission to come ashore?” he shouted. He looked fit and friendly, like a kindly grandfather who took time to go to an exercise club.
    The children exchanged worried looks.
    “I suppose so,” said Hannah.
    Zachary stood up and lifted a hand in answer. “OK!” he shouted. “Temporarily!”
    Mr. King landed the boat and sprang lightly out onto the sand. He was dressed as he had been at their previous meeting, in khaki