"That's interesting," Ariel remarked.

"It depends on how you look at it," Ishmael said. "I fail to see how it could be of use here. We've never had a single book wash ashore— the storms simply tear the pages apart."

Klaus reached into his pocket and touched his hidden commonplace book. "You never know when a book might turn up," he pointed out. "In my opinion, that tool might be useful to keep around."

Ishmael sighed, looking first at Klaus and then at the girl who had found the item. "Well, I'm not going to force you, Ariel," he said, "but if I were you I would toss that silly thing onto the sleigh."

"I'm sure you're right," Ariel said, shrugging at Klaus, and she put the page cutter next to the propeller as a plump man with a sunburned face stepped forward.

"Sherman's the name," said Sherman, with a little bow to all three siblings. "And I found a cheese grater. I nearly lost a finger prying it away from a nest of crabs!"

"You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble," Ishmael said. "We're not going to have much use for a cheese grater without any cheese."

"Grate coconut," Sunny said."Delicious cake."

"Cake?" Sherman said. "Egad, that would be delicious. We haven't had dessert since I've arrived here."

"Coconut cordial is sweeter than dessert," Ishmael said, raising his seashell to his lips. "I certainly wouldn't force you, Sherman, but I do think it would be best if that grater were thrown away."

Sherman took a sip from his own seashell, and then nodded, looking down at the sand. "Very well," he said, and the rest of the morning proceeded in a similar manner. Islander after islander introduced themselves and presented the items they had found, and nearly every time the colony's facilitator discouraged them from keeping anything. A bearded man named Robinson found a pair of overalls, but Ishmael reminded him that the colony only wore the customary white robes, even though Violet could imagine herself wearing them while inventing some sort of mechanical device, so as not to get her robe dirty. An old woman named Erewhon held up a pair of skis that Ishmael dismissed as impractical, although Klaus had read of people who had used skis to cross mud and sand, and a red-haired woman named Weyden offered a salad spinner, but Ishmael reminded her that the island's only salads were to be made from the seaweed that was rinsed in the pool and dried out in the sun, rather than spun, even though Sunny could almost taste a dried coconut snack that such an appliance could have made. Ferdinand island to dump the items in the arboretum, and the islanders excused themselves, at Ishmael's suggestion, to wash their hands for lunch. Within moments the only occupants of the tent were Ishmael, the Baudelaire orphans, and the girl who had first brought them to the tent, as if the siblings were merely another piece of wreckage to be picked over for approval.

"Quite a storm, wasn't it?" asked Ishmael, after a short silence. "We scavenged even more junk than usual."

"Were any other castaways found?" Violet asked.

"Do you mean Count Olaf?" Ishmael asked. "After Friday abandoned him, he'd never dare approach the island. He's either wandering around the coastal shelf, or he's trying to swim his way back to wherever he came from."

The Baudelaires looked at one another, knowing full well that Count Olaf was likely hatching some scheme, particularly as none of the islanders had found the boat's figurehead, where the deadly spores of the Medusoid Mycelium were hidden. "We weren't just thinking of Olaf," Klaus said. "We had some friends who may have been caught in the same storm— a pregnant woman named Kit Snicket who was in a submarine with some associates, and a group of people who were traveling by air."

Ishmael frowned, and drank some cordial from his seashell. "Those people haven't turned up," he said, "but don't despair, Baudelaires. It seems that everything eventually washes up on our shores. Perhaps their crafts were unharmed by the storm."

"Perhaps," Sunny agreed, trying not to think that they might not have been as lucky as that.

"They might turn up in the next day or so," Ishmael continued. "Another storm is heading this way."

"How do you know?" Violet asked. "Is there a barometer on the island?"

"There's no barometer," Ishmael said, referring to a device that measures the pressure in the atmosphere, which is one way of predicting the weather. "I just know there's one coming."

"How would you know such a thing?" Klaus asked, stopping himself from retrieving his commonplace book so he could take notes. "I've always heard that the weather is difficult to predict without advanced instruments."

"We don't need any advanced instruments on this colony," Ishmael said. "I predict the weather by using magic."

" Meledrub," Sunny said, which meant something along the lines of, "I find that very difficult to believe," and her siblings silently agreed. The Baudelaires, as a rule, did not believe in magic, although their mother had had a nifty card trick she could occasionally be persuaded to perform. Like all people who have seen something of the world, the children had come across plenty of things they had been unable to explain, from the diabolical hypnotism techniques of Dr. Orwell to the way a girl named Fiona had broken Klaus's heart, but they had never been tempted to solve these mysteries with a supernatural explanation like magic. Late at night, of course, when one is sitting upright in bed, having been woken up by a sudden loud noise, one believes in all sorts of supernatural things, but it was early afternoon, and the Baudelaires simply could not imagine that Ishmael was some sort of magical weatherman. Their doubt must have shown on their faces, for the facilitator immediately did what many people do when they are not believed, and hurriedly changed the subject.

"What about you, Friday?" Ishmael asked. "Did you find anything else besides the castaways and those awful sunglasses?"

Friday looked quickly at Sunny, but then shook her head firmly. "No," she said.

"Then please go help your mother with lunch," he said, "while I talk to our new colonists."

"Do I have to?" Friday asked. "I'd rather stay here, with the Baudelaires."

"I'm not going to force you," Ishmael said gently, "but I'm sure your mother could use some help."

Without another word, Friday turned and left the tent, walking up the sloping beach toward the other tents of the colony, and the Baudelaires were alone with their facilitator, who leaned down to speak quietly to the orphans.

"Baudelaires," he said, "as your facilitator, allow me to give you a piece of advice, as you begin your stay on this island."

"What might that be?" Violet asked.

Ishmael looked around the tent, as if spies were lurking behind the white, fluttering fabric. He took another sip from his seashell, and cracked his knuckles. "Don't rock the boat," he said, using an expression which here means "Don't upset people by doing something that is not customary." His tone was very cordial, but the children could hear something less cordial almost hidden in his voice, the way a coastal shelf is almost hidden by water. "We've been living by our customs for quite some time. Most of us can scarcely remember our lives before we became castaways, and there is a whole generation of islanders who have never lived anywhere else. My advice to you is not to ask so many questions or meddle around too much with our customs. We have taken you in, Baudelaires, which is a kindness, and we expect kindness in return. If you keep prying into the affairs of the island, people are going to think you're unkind—just like Friday thought Olaf was unkind. So don't rock the boat. After all, rocking the boat is what got you here in the first place."

Ishmael smiled at his little joke, and although they found nothing funny about poking fun at a shipwreck that had nearly killed them, the children gave Ishmael a nervous smile in return, and said no more. The tent was silent for a few minutes, until a pleasant-looking woman with a freckly face walked into the tent carrying an enormous clay jar.