"What?" Sunny asked."Who?"

"It might be another survivor of the storm," Klaus said. "Our boat couldn't have been the only one in this area of the ocean."

"Do you think the storm reached Kit Snicket?" Violet asked.

"Or the triplets?" Sunny said.

Count Olaf scowled, and put one muddy finger on the trigger of the harpoon gun. "If that's Kit Snicket or some bratty orphan," he said, "I'll harpoon her right where she stands. No ridiculous volunteer is going to take my island away from me!"

"You don't want to waste your last harpoon," Violet said, thinking quickly. "Who knows where you'll find another one?"

"That's true," Olaf admitted. "You're becoming an excellent henchwoman."

"Poppycock," growled Sunny, baring her teeth at the count.

"My sister's right," Klaus said. "It's ridiculous to argue about volunteers and hench — people when we're standing on a coastal shelf in the middle of the ocean."

"Don't be so sure, orphan," Olaf replied. "No matter where we are, there's always room for someone like me." He leaned down close to give Klaus a sneaky smile, as if he were telling a joke. "Haven't you learned that by now?"

It was an unpleasant question, but the Baudelaires did not have time to answer it, as the figure drew closer and closer until the children could see it was a young girl, perhaps six or seven years old. She was barefoot, and dressed in a simple, white robe that was so clean she could not have been in the storm. Hanging from the girl's belt was a large white seashell, and she was wearing a pair of sunglasses that looked very much like the ones the Baudelaires had worn as concierges. She was grinning from ear to ear, but when she reached the Baudelaires, panting from her long run, she suddenly looked shy, and although the Baudelaires were quite curious as to who she was, they also found themselves keeping silent. Even Olaf did not speak, and merely admired his reflection in the water.

When you find yourself tongue-tied in front of someone you do not know, you might want to remember something the Baudelaires' mother told them long ago, and something she told me even longer ago. I can see her now, sitting on a small couch she used to keep in the corner of her bedroom, adjusting the straps of her sandals with one hand and munching on an apple with the other, telling me not to worry about the party that was beginning downstairs. "People love to talk about themselves, Mr. Snicket," she said to me, between bites of apple. "If you find yourself wondering what to say to any of the guests, ask them which secret code they prefer, or find out whom they've been spying on lately." Violet, too, could almost hear her mother's voice as she gazed down at this young girl, and decided to ask her something about herself.

"What's your name?" Violet asked.

The girl fiddled with her seashell, and then looked up at the eldest Baudelaire. "Friday," she said.

"Do you live on the island, Friday?" Violet asked.

"Yes," the girl said. "I got up early this morning to go storm scavenging."

"Storm scavawha?" Sunny asked, from Violet's shoulders.

"Every time there's a storm, everyone in the colony gathers everything that's collected on the coastal shelf," Friday said. "One never knows when one of these items will come in handy. Are you castaways?"

"I guess we are," Violet said. "We were traveling by boat when we got caught in the storm. I'm Violet Baudelaire, and this is my brother, Klaus, and my sister, Sunny." She turned reluctantly to Olaf, who was glaring at Friday suspiciously. "And this is—"

"I am your king!" Olaf announced in a grand voice. "Bow before me, Friday!"

"No, thank you," Friday said politely. "Our colony is not a monarchy. You must be exhausted from the storm, Baudelaires. It looked so enormous from shore that we didn't think there'd be any castaways this time. Why don't you come with me, and you can have something to eat?"

"We'd be most grateful," Klaus said. "Do castaways arrive on this island very often?"

"From time to time," Friday said, with a small shrug. "It seems that everything eventually washes up on our shores."

"The shores of Olaf-Land, you mean," Count Olaf growled. "I discovered the island, so I get to name it."

Friday peered at Olaf curiously from behind her sunglasses. "You must be confused, sir, after your journey through the storm," she said. "People have lived on the island for many, many years."

"Primitive people," sneered the villain. "I don't even see any houses on the island."

"We live in tents," Friday said, pointing at the billowing white cloths on the island. "We grew tired of building houses that would only get blown away during the stormy season, and the rest of the time the weather is so hot that we appreciate the ventilation that a tent provides."

"I still say you're primitive," Olaf insisted, "and I don't listen to primitive people."

"I won't force you," Friday said. "Come along with me and you can decide for yourself."

"I'm not going to come along with you," Count Olaf said, "and neither are my hench people! I'm Count Olaf, and I'm in charge around here, not some little idiot in a robe!"

"There's no reason to be insulting," Friday said. "The island is the only place you can go, Count Olaf, so it really doesn't matter who's in charge."

Count Olaf gave Friday a terrible scowl, and he pointed his harpoon gun straight at the young girl. "If you don't bow before me, Friday, I'll fire this harpoon gun at you!"

The Baudelaires gasped, but Friday merely frowned at the villain. "In a few minutes," she said, "all the inhabitants of the island will be out storm scavenging. They'll see any act of violence you commit, and you won't be allowed on the island. Please point that weapon away from me."

Count Olaf opened his mouth as if to say something, but after a moment he shut it again, and lowered the harpoon gun sheepishly, a word which here means "looking quite embarrassed to be following the orders of a young girl."

"Baudelaires, please come with me," Friday said, and began to lead the way toward the distant island.

"What about me?" Count Olaf asked. His voice was a little squeaky, and it reminded the Baudelaires of other voices they had heard, from people who were frightened of Olaf himself. They had heard this voice from guardians of theirs, and from Mr. Poe when the villain would confront him. It was a tone of voice they had heard from various volunteers when discussing Olaf's activities, and even from his henchmen when they complained about their wicked boss. It was a tone of voice the Baudelaires had heard from themselves, during the countless times the dreadful man had threatened them, and promised to get his hands on their fortune, but the children never thought they would hear it from Count Olaf himself. "What about me?" he asked again, but the siblings had already followed Friday a short way from where he was standing, and when the Baudelaire orphans turned to him, Olaf looked like just another piece of detritus that the storm had blown onto the coastal shelf.

"Go away," Friday said firmly, and the castaways wondered if finally they had found a place where there was no room for Count Olaf.