Smith Ruel Perley
The Rival Campers Ashore: or, The Mystery of the Mill

He went on through the alders and brush, till presently he heard the report of the gun. Guided by the sound, he continued on for a little way, then shinned into the branches of a tall cedar, heavily wooded, and from there got a view upstream. Several rods away, he could see the alders move, thrust aside by Benny Ellison. Little Tim seated himself amid the branches, safely hidden, and waited.

Some ten or fifteen minutes passed, and then the snapping of underbrush told of the approach of Benny Ellison, on his return. That his shot had told was evidenced by another pickerel which he carried, hung by the gills on the crotch of an alder branch, together with the big fellow that Little Tim had caught. Tim's eyes snapped as he saw the fish.

Benny Ellison, chuckling to himself, passed the tree where Tim crouched, high above him. Almost within the shadow of it, he stopped and laughed heartily, as he glanced down at the big pickerel.

"It's a bird," he cried. "Shot it in a tree – what luck!"

Not until he had gone some distance did Little Tim emerge from hiding, scramble to the ground and follow. Dodging from tree to tree, and pausing frequently, he saw Benny Ellison finally seat himself on a log beside the stream. Tim waited. Then a smile of satisfaction crossed his freckled face as Benny Ellison began stripping off his clothes for a swim.

Little Tim, crouching low, almost crawling, crept closer.

Benny Ellison stood on a bank by the edge of a deep pool, a favourite swimming-place, where he and his cousins, and Little Tim, too, had had many a swim. The water was inviting, with the sultriness of the afternoon. Tim's heart beat high as he saw Benny Ellison plunge headforemost into the pool.

Then Tim's hopes were realized. Benny Ellison, a good swimmer, struck out into midstream toward a reef that protruded a few feet above water.

Crawling on hands and knees, Tim quickly gained the shelter of the log where the other had thrown his clothes, with the fish dropped just alongside. Tim made sure of his fish, first. He pulled it hastily from the stick, leaving the one that Benny Ellison had shot, afterwards, unmolested for the moment.

Then he dragged Benny Ellison's cotton shirt down behind the log. Seizing the sleeves, he proceeded to tie the thin garment into hard knots. It was the old schoolboy trick. He had had it played on him many a time in swimming – and done the same by others; but he had never entered into the prank with half the zest as now. He tugged at the knots and drew them hard.

"That shirt's a bird," he said softly, eying the shapeless bundle, with a grin. Then he served the trousers and the "galluses" the same way; likewise Benny Ellison's socks. Finally, having it all dona to suit him, he stood erect upon the log and called out to the swimmer.

"Say, Benny," he cried, "here's your bird." And, stooping and picking up Benny Ellison's pickerel, he hurled the dead fish far out into the stream. The fish struck the water with a splash, as Benny Ellison, turning in dismay and wrath, started back with vigorous strokes.

"There's another bird on the log for you, Benny," called Tim. Then, picking up his own fish, he scampered. Benny Ellison's slower steps could not have equalled the pace set by those bare feet, had he been ashore. By the time he was on land again, Little Tim, his pole and string of fish regained, was half-way to the Ellison dam.

A voice stopped him as he was emerging on to the main road, just below Witham's Half Way House. He turned and saw Bess Thornton.

"Hello, Tim," she called, "what's the matter? Anybody after you? My, but I guess you've been running fast."

Tim Reardon, wiping his face with his sleeves, told her what had happened. The girl danced with glee, while her bright eyes sparkled.

"Oh, goody!" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't I just like to have seen that fat old Benny Ellison try to catch you. My, but you always have the luck, don't you? That's a grand string of fish."

Tim Reardon, unstringing two of the pickerel from the rope, transferred them to a twig of alder that he cut from a near by bush, and handed them to her.

"I've got more'n I want," he said.

"Thanks," said the girl, and added, "Say, Tim, I'll tell you something. I saw four trout in the brook this morning, and one of them was that long."

She measured with her hands, held a little more than a foot apart.

"Where was it – about a mile above your house?" queried Tim.

The girl nodded.

"In the pool where the big tree's fallen across," she said.

"I guess he's the big one I've tried to get, a lot of times," said Tim. "But I haven't seen him lately. I thought he'd gone down into Ellison's pool. I'd like to see him."

He was a fisherman by nature, was Little Tim, and the very mention of the big trout made his eyes twinkle.

"Come on up," said Bess Thornton.

Tim hesitated. "It's most too late," he replied. "I'll be late to supper now, if I don't run."

"Oh, never mind," she urged. "I'll show you just where I saw him. I just as lieve you'd catch him."

The invitation was too much for Tim, and he started off across the fields with Bess Thornton.

"That fish'll never bite," he said, as they went along; "I've tried him with worms and grasshoppers and wasps and crickets, and that fly made of feathers that Jack gave me. He knows a whole lot, that old trout. Guess he's a school-teacher, he knows so much."

"I'm going to catch him, anyway, if you don't," said the girl. "I know what I'm going to do."

"What's that?" asked Tim, in a tone that indicated he had no great faith in her success.

"I'm going to bait up two hooks with a whole lot of worms, and I'm not going to put 'em into the pool till after it gets dark," replied Bess Thornton. "And I'm going to let 'em stay there all night. He's such a sly old thing you can't get near the bank without he knows it. Then when it gets morning, and he's hungry, perhaps he'll see all those worms and just go and catch himself."

"Yes, and get away again long before you get back," said Tim Reardon. "He'll just take and tangle that line all up around the rocks and sticks at the bottom, and break it."

"I'm going to try, anyway," she insisted. They turned in at the path leading to the girl's home presently, and she went in with the pickerel.

"I'll dig some bait for you while you're gone," called Tim.

"I can do it," she said.

"Oh, you're all dressed up," said Tim, who had noted her unusual appearance, clad as she was in her new bright sailor-suit.

"Going to change it," she said, "Had to put it on to go to Benton in."

She went into the house, and Tim Reardon, seizing a spade that he found leaning against the shed, made his way to a corner of the house, where an old water-spout came down, from the gutter that caught the rain on the roof. He was turning up the soil there when the girl reappeared.

"Oh, that isn't the place to dig," she said. "I never dig for worms there."

"Well, here's the place to find 'em," asserted Tim. "I'm getting some. You always find angleworms where the ground's moist. They like it, because the rain comes down off the roof here. There you are, grab that fat fellow."

The girl made a grab at a bit of the soft earth, where a worm was wriggling back into its hole.

"Ugh! he got away," she said, opening her hand and letting the dirt drop through her fingers. The next moment she uttered a little cry of surprise.

"I've got something, though," she exclaimed. "Look, Tim, it's money – it's a coin. Where do you suppose it came from? Perhaps it's good yet. If I can spend it, I'll go halves."

The boy took the piece of money from her fingers. It was dull and tarnished; a little larger in size than a ten cent piece, but it was not silver.

Tim Reardon looked at it intently and rubbed its sides on his trousers leg.

"Say, Bess," he said earnestly, "do you know what I think – I guess it's gold. Yes, I do. 'Tisn't American money, though. It's got a queer head on it, see, a man with some sort of a thing on his head like a wreath. Oh, my, but that's too bad. Look, Bess, there's a hole been bored in it. P'raps you can't spend it."

Near the edge, there was, in truth, a tiny depression, nearly obscured by dirt and corrosion, which seemed to indicate that the coin had at some time been pierced, as though it might have been worn by someone as an ornament.

"Let's scrub it," said the girl. "Perhaps it'll brighten up, so we can see it better."

They went in with it to the kitchen sink, where Bess Thornton, getting a basin of warm water and soap, proceeded to polish the coin with a small brush. It soon brightened sufficiently to reveal the unmistakable gleam of gold, and was a foreign coin of some sort, possibly of Austrian coinage; but the letters which it had borne, and the figures, had been worn much away; and one side was worn quite smooth, so as to give no clew to what had been stamped there.

"Well, I can wear it, if I can't spend it," said Bess Thornton. "There's the hole to hang it by. Isn't it pretty?"

"Isn't what pretty?" said a voice, suddenly interrupting them. Old Granny Thornton was peering over the girl's shoulder. "What are you two doing? What have you got there?"

"See, gran'," replied the girl. "Look what we found. It's money, gran', and it's gold."

The old woman took the coin in her thin fingers and held it up close to her eyes. Then she started and her hand shook tremulously. A pallor overspread her face. She sank back into a chair, staring at the coin, which she clutched tight as though it had some strange fascination that held her gaze.

"Where did you get that?" she cried hoarsely. "Where was it?"

"We dug it up just now, gran', out in the yard. Why, what's the matter? Can't I keep it? What makes you act so queer, gran'?"

The old woman hesitated for a moment and seemed lost for a reply. Then she said, hurriedly:

"No, girl – no, not now. You shall have it some day. You can't have it yet. It isn't time. You wore it once when you were little – but it was lost. Oh, how I've hunted for it! You'll get it again. I'll keep it safe, this time."

She was strangely agitated and spoke in broken tones. Then, to their surprise, she arose and hurried from the room, waving the girl back and bidding her go and play. They heard her go stumbling up the stairs to the floor above.

"Mean old thing!" exclaimed Bess. "Well, I don't care. Let her keep it. I'll find where she hides it, see if I don't. Come on, let's go out doors."

Granny Thornton, peering out an attic window at the boy and girl, going up along the brook, turned and felt along a dusty beam until her fingers rested on a key. With this she unlocked a drawer of an old bureau, that stood in a dark, out-of-the-way corner. There were some odds and ends of clothing there, and some boxes and papers. From out the stuff, she drew, with trembling fingers, a small gold chain, such as children wear. Fumbling over this, she unclasped a tiny clasp and affixed the golden coin. Then, holding it up to her eyes, she gazed at it long and earnestly; replaced it in the drawer, locked this, hid the key again and stole down the stairs.

CHAPTER XIII
A SAILING ADVENTURE

John Ellison, a youth of about fifteen, but of a sturdy build and manner that might lead one to suppose him older, stood by the gateway of the Ellison farm, looking down across the fields towards the mill. It was busy grinding and, as its monotonous tones came up to him, the boy shook his head sadly. An expression as of anger overspread his manly young face, and his cheeks flushed.

"It's wrong," he exclaimed, speaking his thoughts aloud; "I'll bet there's some trick about it. Father always said we should run the mill some day. It makes me mad to see old Witham sneaking about, afraid to look any of us in the face; but I suppose there's no help for it."

He went up the driveway to the house, got an axe from the woodshed and began splitting some pieces of sawed oak and hickory from a great pile in the yard. It was a relief to his pent-up feelings, and he drove the axe home with powerful blows. He was a strong, handsome youth, with face and arms healthily bronzed with work in the open air. He laid a big junk of the oak across the chopping-block, swung the axe, and cleft the stick with a single blow that sent the halves flying in either direction.

"That was a good stroke – a corker," exclaimed a youth who had entered the yard and come up quietly behind him. John Ellison turned quickly.

"Hello, Henry," he said. "Where'd you come from?"

"Just had a swim," replied Henry Burns. "I see where you get all that muscle, now. That's good as canoeing, I guess."

"Well," responded John Ellison, looking rather serious, "I reckon I'll do more of it from now on than canoeing; though I've done my share of work all along. I'm running the farm now – that is, what we've got left. Witham's got a good part of it. I suppose you know, don't you?"

Henry Burns nodded. "It's a shame," he said. "But perhaps it'll come out right in the end."

"I don't see how," said John Ellison. "Witham's got the mill, and the big wood lot where we used to cut most of the wood we sold every fall, and the great meadow up opposite old Granny Thornton's, with the hayfield in it. We've got enough left close by here to keep us from starving, all right; but it isn't what it ought to be. We've had to sell half the cows, because we can't feed them."

Henry Burns whistled. "It's tough," he said, and added, doubtfully, "How about that week up at the pond? Can you go?"

John Ellison looked downcast. "I'd forgotten all about that," he said. "We did plan for a week at Old Whitecap, didn't we? I'm afraid it's all up for me, though. There's haying to be done, a lot of wood to be cut, and chores. I guess you'll have to count me out. I might let Jim go for a couple of days, though," he added, speaking as though he were a dozen years older than his brother, instead of only one.

"No, you're the one that was going," responded Henry Burns; "you could go if the work were done, couldn't you?"

"Perhaps," replied John Ellison; "but there's enough there to take us more than a fortnight. Benny don't count for much; he's too lazy."

"Well, we'll get the work done, all right," said Henry Burns; "and then we'll take you with us."

John Ellison laughed. "You city fellows wouldn't like farm work, much, I guess," he said.

He hardly took Henry Burns seriously, especially as the latter spoke but little more about the project; but, the next day, looking up from his work, at the sound of wagon wheels, he saw a cart coming up the hill, laden with baggage and a party of boys. Tom Harris was driving, and beside him on the seat were Bob White and Henry Burns. In the body of the cart were Jack Harvey and Tim Reardon. These two were seated amidst a pile of camp stuff.

"Well, we're here," said Henry Burns, laughing, as the boys piled out of the cart. "Hope you've got something for us all to do. You'll find us green, but we won't shirk."

John Ellison stared at them in amazement. "You better go on out to the pond," he said. "I don't want to keep you fellows. Perhaps Jim and I can get out for a couple of days before you come in. Besides, you want to look out for Benny," he added, winking at Henry Burns. "He says he's going to thrash you some day."

"Oh, I'm all right," laughed Henry Burns. "I've got Jack here to help me out now. What'll we do, John? Come on, we're losing time."

"Well, if you really want to," replied John Ellison, somewhat reluctantly, "two of you can go down in the haying field and help Jim; and there's this wood's got to be split, and the corn and potatoes to be hoed." He pointed, as he spoke, to two great fields of the latter. "We'll set Tim catching potato bugs," he added, smiling.

"I'll catch 'em," responded Tim, heartily. "I wonder what kind of bait they'd make for trout."

They divided up then, Tom and Bob, equipped with pitchforks, starting off for the haying field; Henry Burns and Tim following John Ellison into the garden; while Harvey, his waist stripped to a faded sleeveless jersey, attacked the woodpile with a strength and energy that made up for his lack of familiarity with the work.

He was busily engaged when Mrs. Ellison looked out at the kitchen door.

"Why," she said, in surprise, "I didn't know we had a new hand. Oh, I see, you're one of the boys' friends."

Harvey explained.

"Well, I call that good of you," exclaimed Mrs. Ellison, her pleasant, motherly face beaming. "Let the boys go after it's done? Why, of course. They can both go. Benny will help me through the week, all right, won't you, Benny?"

The youth thus addressed, who had just put in an appearance, his gun over his shoulder, assented, though not with much heartiness. He scowled at Harvey, and made no offer to be friendly.

"I suppose you want to go on the pond, too," said Mrs. Ellison, sympathetically.

Benny Ellison glanced sullenly at Harvey. "Not with those city chaps," he replied.

The "city chaps," sneeringly referred to by Benny Ellison, proved themselves good workmen, however. Unused to farm labour, as they were, their muscles were, however, far from being soft and easily tired. Tom and Bob, who excelled at athletics, surprised Jim Ellison with the amount of hay they could stack up into cocks, or, again, the amount they could spread and scatter; and they were tireless in following him through all the broad field. Henry Burns and Little Tim were of the wiry sort that never seemed to weary; while Harvey made the pile of split wood grow in a way that made Mrs. Ellison's eyes stick out.

Then, at noon, when the big farm dinner-bell rang, there was a great table spread for them in the long dining-room, fairly creaking with an array of good things to eat; with plenty of rich milk and doughnuts and home-made gingerbread to finish up with. Little Tim's thin face seemed to be almost bulging when he had done; and he ate his sixth doughnut in gallant style.

He was nearly wild with delight, too, late that afternoon, when he got permission to fish the famous Ellison trout pool; and he came back in time for supper with a fine string of the fish, brilliantly spotted fellows, which Mrs. Ellison fried to a crisp for the crew of boy farmers when their day's work was over.

There came a little knock at the door when they were eating supper, and Bess Thornton, come for a pitcher of milk, looked in at the group of merry youngsters.

"My, what fun!" she exclaimed, and speaking half to herself added, "I wish I lived here too. Gran' said – "

"What's that? Why, I wish you did live here," exclaimed Mrs. Ellison, stepping back with the pitcher in her hands at the girl's words, and looking into her bright, eager face with eyes that suddenly moistened. "I wish you did," she repeated. "Why don't you ever come in, when you come for the milk? Come in now and have some supper with the boys?"

But the girl started back, almost timidly.

"Oh, I can't," she said, "I didn't think what I was saying. Gran' says never to stay – to hurry back. She doesn't like to have me come for the milk, but she can't come, herself."

And, true to her instructions, she departed promptly, when she had received the pitcher, well filled – almost double what the money she had brought would usually buy.

"She's a queer little sprite," was Mrs. Ellison's comment, as she watched her go down the path; "but there's something fine and brave about her. Who wouldn't be queer, living all alone with old Granny Thornton?"

The two weeks' farming that John Ellison had reckoned on was through with in five days, thanks to the energy of the volunteer crew. They enjoyed it, too; the work in the bright fields; the jolly meals at the Ellison table; the nights in the big hay-barn, with blankets spread in the mow; the evening's swim in the stream just before supper.

And, on the sixth day, John and James Ellison went away on the wagon, with clear consciences and light hearts, and with Mrs. Ellison waving a farewell to them from the door of the shed. It was cramped quarters for them all in the wagon, with the camping equipment, jolting along the country roads; and they walked most of the hills. But the journey was a jubilant one, and they welcomed the first gleaming of Whitecap pond with whoops of delight.

Whitecap pond seemed to return the welcome, too; for it twinkled all over in the light of an afternoon sun, as they set up the two tents that were to house them; and it sent in its light ripples dancing merrily almost to the very door of the tents; a splash now and then in the still waters told them of fishing delights to come. The white, fine sand of its shores was soft as carpet to their feet, as they ran races along the shore, and took a swim by moonlight before they turned in for the night's rest.

They liked the wildness of the loon's weird hullo, coming in at the open flaps of the tents from afar; and the clumsy fluttering and flapping of great beetles against the canvas, attracted by the lantern light that shone through. The cawing of crows just above their heads awoke them early next morning.

They were out for perch and bass before the sun was high, and were in luck, for the fish were plenty; and the perch chowder that Bob, who was an old and experienced camper, made for the noon meal was a wonderful achievement, and reminded them of old times in Samoset Bay.

But there was one drawback – at least, for Henry Burns and Harvey, who were hankering for the grip of a tiller and the thrill of a boat under sail. There wasn't a sailboat to be hired on the pond. There were not many, and they were all engaged. Coombs, who owned the slip and the boats, said he hadn't done such a business in years. He could only let them have two rowboats. Yet they came into the use of one, two days later, through an adventure.

It was early in the afternoon, and Henry Burns and Harvey and Little Tim stood on the float at Coombs's landing, looking at a sailboat that lay at its berth alongside. It was not exactly a handsome craft; with too great length for its beam, and its lines drawn out so fine astern that it bade fair to be somewhat cranky. It had no cabin, and there was seating room for a large party – a design calculated more for profit than safety.

The boat was in evident poor condition, lacking paint, and its rigging frayed, a not uncommon condition with boats to let in small waters of this sort. Somewhat crude lettering on the stern spelled the name, Flyaway.

"Looks as though she might fly away with somebody, all right, if he didn't look out," remarked Harvey, grinning at his companions. "Wish we had her, though, for a week. We'd take a chance, eh, Henry?"

Henry Burns nodded. "Let's see 'em start off in her," he said.

They waited about, and presently there appeared on the landing the present claimant of the Flyaway. He was a big, bluff, hearty man, florid face, loud of voice, a free and easy manner, and he was dressed for the occasion in yachting clothes of unmistakable newness. He eyed the Flyaway with an assumption of nautical wisdom and experience.

"That's a good-looking boat, Captain Coombs," he said, in tones that could be heard far away. "She's all right; just what I want. I like a boat with plenty of room for the ladies to be comfortable."

"Well, I reckon she's the best boat on Whitecap pond," responded the man, while his small eyes twinkled shrewdly. "Just humour her a bit, and I reckon she'll go where anything of her size will. She's seen some rough times on this pond."

The appearance of the Flyaway seemed to bear out this statement.

"Sure you can handle her all right, are you, Mr. Bangs?" added Captain Coombs, eying his customer with a quick, sidelong glance.

"Well, I reckon," was the bluff reply.

Captain Coombs, possibly not all assured, gave an inquiring look toward a man who was busy cleaning a rowboat close by, and who seemed to be an interested party of some sort, probably a partner. The man drew his right eye down in an unmistakable wink, and glanced up at the sky. Then he nodded, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, as though he might have said, "There's no wind; we'll take a chance."

There was, indeed, scarcely a breath of wind blowing, and there was no present prospect of any.

Mr. Bangs's party began now to arrive: a somewhat fleshy, and withal nervous and agitated lady, who proved to be Mrs. Bangs; two young girls, an angular lady carrying a fat pug dog in her arms, and a small boy.

"Aha, we're all here," cried Mr. Bangs, joyfully. "Let's get aboard and be off. Splendid day for a sail, eh, Captain Coombs?"

"Couldn't be better," replied Coombs, dryly. "Are those oars in her, Dan?"

"Why, you don't suppose I'm going to row her, do you?" laughed Mr. Bangs.

"We sometimes has to, when we doesn't want to," said Coombs laconically. "No fun staying out all night if the wind dies out."

"Oh, yes, of course," responded Mr. Bangs. "Get aboard, ladies."

"I don't believe you know how to sail a boat, Augustus," said Mrs. Bangs, eying her husband doubtfully. "Are you sure you do?"

"Nonsense!" snorted Mr. Bangs. "Don't be getting nervous, now. Don't you know I was elected commodore of the Green Pond Fishing Club only two weeks ago?"

Mr. Bangs refrained from communicating the fact that the principal occupation of the members of the Green Pond Fishing Club was the mixing of certain refreshing liquids in tall glasses, and sipping them on the verandah of a clubhouse.

The party therefore embarked. Mrs. Bangs was not wholly at ease, however.

"Supposing there isn't any wind by and by, Augustus, and you have to row. Why don't you take somebody along, to help? We've got lots to eat."

This idea, at least, seemed to strike Mr. Bangs favourably. He glanced to where Henry Burns and his companions stood.

"Hello," he called, "want to go out for a sail? Got room enough. Take you along."

The three boys stepped toward the boat.

"Not scared of the water, are you?" queried Mr. Bangs.

"Not unless it gets rough," replied Henry Burns, with a sly wink at Harvey.

The three jumped aboard, and Coombs, with something like a grin at his partner, shoved the boat's head off. He had got the jib and mainsail up, and they caught what little breeze there was stirring. The Flyaway drew away from the landing. To Bangs's embarrassment, however, the boom suddenly swung inboard, swiped across the stern, causing him to duck hastily, and almost knocking the bonnet off the lady with the pug dog. Mr. Bangs had jibed the boat, greatly to his surprise. But no harm had been done, as the wind was light.

Mr. Bangs laughed loudly. "Meant to tell you that was coming," he said. "She'll sail better this way. Ever been on the water before, boys?"

Harvey nodded. "A little," he said.

"Well, the more you are used to it, the better you'll like it," said Mr. Bangs. "Don't mind if she tips a little, if we get any wind. She sails that way. Funny that jib flutters so. Better haul in on that rope there and – and trim it."

Henry Burns, soberly following orders, did as requested. But it was noticeable that the trimming did not seem to accomplish the result desired by Mr. Bangs. In fact, as the Flyaway was going dead before the wind, it was quite apparent that no amount of trimming would make the jib draw.

"It keeps on fluttering just the same, Augustus," said Mrs. Bangs, eying the offending sail suspiciously. "Hadn't you better tie it some way?"

"Of course not," responded Mr. Bangs, loftily. "They will act that way sometimes. Isn't that so, my lads?"

"Oh yes," replied Henry Burns. "I've seen 'em do it, haven't you, Jack?"

But Harvey was looking the other way.

They went slowly up the pond, with Mr. Bangs holding the tiller and watching the sail critically. He was in buoyant spirits, and entertained them with stories of the thrilling adventures of the Green Pond Fishing Club, in which he seemed to have figured prominently.

The wind freshened a little and the Flyaway drew ahead somewhat faster. There was just the suspicion of a ripple along the sides, and it was pleasant sailing. Two miles up the pond they dropped the sail and anchored; got out the fish lines and tried for bass. After which, Mr. Bangs, a generous host, opened up a huge hamper and spread out a luncheon that made Little Tim's mouth water.

"Nothing like sailing to give one an appetite," exclaimed Mr. Bangs, heartily. "Pitch in, boys. There's plenty of grub. I believe in having enough to eat, I do."

He was so busily and pleasantly engaged in eating that he paid no heed to the aspect of the sky. Nor, indeed, was there anything of very serious import in its changes. But Henry Burns, alert as ever, saw certain signs of wind in some light banks of cloud that began to gather in the western sky, in the direction of Coombs's landing.

"We won't have to row home," he said presently, addressing the skipper of the Flyaway, who was absorbed in the enjoyment of a huge slice of meat pie.

"Eh, what's that?" he inquired. "What do you mean?"

"We're going to have some wind," replied Henry Burns.

"Well, that's what we want, for sailing," laughed Mr. Bangs. "You aren't anxious to row, are you?"

"Not particularly," replied Henry Burns. "We won't have to, anyway. It's going to blow some. We'll take some spray in over the bows beating back – "

"What's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Bangs. "Augustus, do you hear? Let's start right away. We don't want to get wet."

"Ho!" sniffed Mr. Bangs. But just then a quick gust of wind swept over them, such as comes without warning in pond waters, bordered by hills. Mr. Bangs seemed to take the hint it conveyed. "Guess we'd better start," he said.

The boys sprang to the halyards; the sails were hoisted and the anchor got aboard. With Mr. Bangs at the tiller, the Flyaway started on the beat of two miles down the pond. The wind continued to freshen, coming now and then in flaws, as the light clouds overspread the sky.

Henry Burns, noting the style of Mr. Bangs's yachtsmanship, and observing the freshening of the wind, and the fact that the craft was not being worked to windward anywhere near what it would go, slipped astern beside Mr. Bangs.

"Like to have me tend that sheet for you?" he asked, carelessly.