A mist lit by the light coming from inside the building clings near to the ground, enveloping the framed one-story structure in a thin veil, looking very much like some sort of mysterious secret storybook place - especially since it now appears to be ominously surrounded on all sides by dark overgrown mangroves, wispy tall pines and darting shadows making night sounds. From inside, you hear voices and music and laughter overflowing from the one-room building. People are milling about in a nearly packed room. From their attire it seems a mix of guests and workers, not mixed side by side but bunched in groups with the workers outnumbering Inn guests. The sound of the music suggests it's coming from a windup portable Victrola playing a well-worn copy of Eddie Cantor's "Makin' Whoopee." About where scratches from repeated playing nearly drown out the lyrics, scattered applause and a few hoots and whistles accompany a man to the center ring. (Both island guests and work staff attended the Whoopee Island amateur boxing matches. This particular night they were there along with Heavyweight Champion Gene Tunney acting as referee, and author Mary Roberts Rinehart as one of the judges.)