I guess all the desert islands are discovered by now; oh boy, there were lots and lots of them in the seventeenth century; that's my favorite century, the seventeenth, on account of buried treasure and desert islands." Indulging these disconsolate spring musings, Pee-wee sank down in his chair again, a frowning, dreamy figure, and floated out of the library and away from all the sordid environments of Bridgeboro toward a desert island situated in the south-eastern part of the seventeenth century.
It was a long, long way off and he had to cross the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to get to it.

He was no longer a pioneer scout now, nor a scout at all, but a doughty explorer about to set foot for the first time on soil that white man had never trod before.
He sank farther down in his chair as he voyaged afar.

He was soon out of sight of land and almost out of sight of the few readers in that drowsy old library.

He continued to sink lower and lower in his chair as if he had sprung a leak.

Only his round, curly head was above the table.