Four Afloat: Being the Adventures of the Big Four on the Water

That done, Bob took the wheel, Dan perched himself in the bow, and Nelson started the engine at the slowest speed. The Vagabond, with a shrill screech from her whistle that so surprised Dan that he nearly tumbled off the bow, pushed the fog aside and crept through the silence. All went well for a moment. Then came a quick warning from Dan.

“Back her!” he yelled. “Land dead ahead!”

“Back her!” called Bob, swirling the wheel around. There was a sudden commotion under the launch’s stern as the propeller was reversed and, at the same instant, a tiny jar as her bow settled on to the sandy bottom. Dan ran back and seized the boat hook.

“Tell Nel to keep her backing,” he called, “and I’ll see if I can’t shove her off.”

But it was a five minutes’ task, and had not the tide been coming in instead of running out it is likely that the Vagabond would have stayed where she was for a good twelve hours. But finally her bow was free once more and Dan shoved and panted over the boat hook until the launch was headed away and the dim line of shore was gone from sight again.

“All right now,” he called, and Nelson again threw the clutch forward. In the excitement of getting afloat they had forgotten the whistle, but now Nelson made up for lost time, and the launch poked her way gingerly along to an accompaniment of distressful shrieks.

“How are we going to know when we get back to where we left Tommy?” asked Bob down the companion way.

“We’ll just have to guess at it,” was the answer. “If we get where Tommy can hear the whistle we’ll be doing all right.”

Several minutes passed. Then came another caution from the bow.

“Land on the port bow,” called Dan. “Hold her off a bit more, Bob.”

“All right,” said Dan a moment later. “Can’t see anything now. Seems to me, though, we ought to be far enough.”

“I guess we are,” answered Bob dryly. “We’re out on the bar, I should say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you feel the swells? If we aren’t in the Sound we’re pretty near it.”

“But how can we be? We’ve been going up the river toward New London, haven’t we?”

“I thought we had, but we haven’t, I guess. Say, Nel, come up here a minute.”

Nelson appeared and agreed with Bob.

“Either we are somewhere around the mouth of the river or else we’re in a steamboat’s wake; and we haven’t heard any pass. Wait a bit.” He went down and stopped the engine. “Now,” he said as he came back, “let’s have that boat hook a minute.”

Dan passed it to him and he dropped it into the water, keeping hold of the end. The submerged portion floated back against the hull. Nelson pulled it up and tried again over the stern.

“We’re just about broadside to the current,” he announced. “And I’m blest if I know where we are. Best thing we can do is to drop anchor, I guess.”

“Not if we’re in the middle of the river,” said Bob. “Let’s keep on a bit farther. Dan saw land a moment ago over there. Suppose I head that way and we creep over until we find it again. Then we won’t be in danger of being run down by somebody.”

“That’s so,” answered Nelson. “Keep your eyes open, Dan.”

So the Vagabond took up her travels again, groping her way through the gray mist, with Dan peering anxiously from the bow. It was rather exciting while it lasted and the monotonous screech of the whistle breaking the silence lent an uncanny touch to the adventure. Then —

“Stop her!” called Dan, and Bob repeated the injunction to Nelson at the engine. The propeller stopped and the launch floated softly through the mist. “Star-board a little,” said Dan. Bob turned the wheel. “All right,” said Dan. “How’s this, Nel?”

Nelson had joined him and was peering perplexedly through the fog.

“I don’t see any land,” he said finally.

“Over there. I can’t see it myself now, though. Wait a bit and the fog will thin. There it is,” said Dan. “See that dark line?”

“Yes. Let’s put the anchor down. Stand by the cable, will you? It’s all snarled up.” There was a splash which sounded momentously loud in the stillness and the cable ran out for some ten feet. “We must be pretty well in toward shore,” said Nelson.

“Now what?” asked Bob, working his way forward over the slippery deck. They looked from one to another. Finally —

“Stay here until the fog lifts and we can find Tommy, I guess,” said Nelson.

“Hang Tommy, anyhow,” said Bob disgustedly. “He’s always getting lost in the fog.”

“Yes, it’s the easiest thing he does,” agreed Dan. “He ought to write a book about it when he gets home. ‘Fogs I Have Met, by Thomas Courtenay Ferris.’”

“Supposing we shoot off that revolver of yours a few times?” Nelson suggested.

“All right,” said Bob. “I’ll get it.”

“It was a dandy joke of yours, Dan,” said Nelson. Dan shrugged his shoulders and wiped the drops from his face against his sleeve.

“How the dickens was I to know this fool fog was coming up?” he asked. “Here, let me shoot that, Bob.”

“You run away,” answered Bob, as he filled the chamber of his revolver.

“But I feel that I am to blame in the matter,” said Dan earnestly, “and I ought to be allowed to do all I can to – er – remedy things.”

“Well, you can’t shoot my revolver,” answered Bob dryly. “But you can hold the cartridges.”

“Let me shoot once,” Dan begged. Bob relented and between them they banged away into the air until there was a good-sized hole in the contents of the cartridge box and Bob called a halt. Then they listened attentively.

“There!” whispered Dan.

“Steamboat whistle,” said Bob, and Nelson nodded concurrence.

“Let’s shout,” said Dan. They shouted. Then they stopped and listened again. There was not a sound to be heard save the faint lapping of the waves against the shore.

CHAPTER XVIII – IN WHICH TOM PUTS UP AT THE SEAMONT INN

Tom stirred uneasily and brushed his nose with his hand. A drop of moisture had formed on it and was tickling him. Dimly aware of a change in conditions since he had fallen asleep, he opened his eyes, blinked, and sat up. The tent had disappeared; Dan had disappeared; Nelson had disappeared; everyone had disappeared! There was nothing in sight save, a few feet away, the blackened remains of last night’s fire and the pile of wood which he had collected. After the first expression of surprise had passed from his countenance a smile of amusement settled on it. Tom chuckled.

“I’ll bu-bu-bet Dan did it,” he said half aloud. He threw his blanket from him and stood up. The fog was so thick that he couldn’t see the edge of the shore, but he remembered where the tender had been and, with blanket over his shoulders, he walked toward it. He found the landing but no tender.

“I suppose they’re waiting for me to yell out to them. Well, they probably won’t come until I do. So here goes: O Dan! O fellows!”

Silence.

“Vagabond ahoy!” shouted Tom. “Say, cut it out, will you? I want my breakfast!”

Silence.

“Oh, thunder!” muttered Tom, pulling the blanket up over his head to keep the fog from sifting down his neck. “Think you’re smart, don’t you?” At that moment the fog cleared for a tiny space and Tom stared in puzzled surprise. Then the mists shut down again as quickly as they had lifted, but not before Tom had seen that the Vagabond was no longer in sight. He sat down on the stone wall and tried to reason it out. Of course it had been Dan’s idea; no one but Dan would think of such a trick. They had gone off to the boat and had managed to get the tent down without disturbing him. But afterwards? Why had they gone off in the launch? Probably to make him think that they had left him for good. Very well, then he would follow. He recollected that below the cove the shore had jutted out into a wooded point; he had gathered wood along the edge of it yesterday afternoon. They had probably taken the launch around the point out of sight. So the best thing to do was to walk along the shore until he got to where they were. Then he’d tell them just what he thought of them!

So he set off through the fog, keeping the river’s edge dimly in sight. He began to feel rather soggy and very, very hungry. Also, it was none too warm that morning, although after he had been walking for a time his chilliness passed off. When he reached the woods he hesitated. To turn to the left and follow the shore would mean much harder walking and a much longer trip. So he decided to go through the wood and come out on the other side of the point. After five minutes he began to think that he had made a mistake. For there was no sign of a break in the trees, nor, when he paused and listened, could he hear the lap of the little waves along the shore. Probably he had borne too far inland. He changed his course to the left and started on again. But the trees grew near together, there was a good deal of underbrush and keeping a straight course was out of the question. By this time his only thought was to reach the shore again, and he kept bearing farther and farther to the left. Some ten minutes passed. Tom’s face began to grow anxious. He had visions of spending the day in those woods, breakfastless, luncheonless, dinnerless! He stopped and sat down on a fallen log to consider the situation calmly and to get some of his breath back.

“The next time I leave home in a fog you’ll know it!” he muttered, apparently addressing the nearest tree. “What good’s a fog, anyway?” Presently he realized that his thoughts had wandered away on the subject of fogs and that he hadn’t solved his dilemma. By this time he had lost all sense of direction and didn’t pretend to know where the river lay. The wood, he thought, couldn’t be very large and so if he kept on walking in a straight line he was certain to get out of it before long. Once out of it – Well, maybe he could find a house or a road. As for the Vagabond and Dan and Nelson and Bob they could choke for all he cared; what he wanted was breakfast, and lots of it!

So presently, having recovered his wind, he got up, fixed a direction firmly in his mind and trudged on again. The fog was thinner here in the woods than it had been along the shore; possibly, he reasoned, the farther inland he got the less fog there would be. Although if he could only find something to eat he wouldn’t bother about the weather. He had been walking for some five or six minutes when the trees suddenly disappeared and he found himself on the edge of a planted field. The fog seemed as thick as ever and it was impossible to see more than twenty or thirty feet away. But a planted field, especially one planted with vegetables, as this one was, argued a house near by. So he got between two rows of cauliflower and tramped on. Presently he found his way barred by a stone wall. On the other side of the wall was grass. Tom perched himself on top of the wall and speculated.

He cut a queer figure as he sat there with the red-bordered gray blanket over his head. One corner of the blanket had been dragging for the last ten minutes and was covered with mud. Here and there a wet leaf was pasted upon it. His shoes, the white canvas, rubber-soled “sneakers” worn on the launch, were sights to behold, and within them his feet were very wet and very cold. But what bothered him most of all was his stomach. That felt dreadfully empty, and now and then little “shooty” pains made themselves felt.

Probably he had mistaken the direction of the house belonging to the field, he told himself dispiritedly. He should have walked across the rows instead of along them. And the grass in front of him only meant a meadow with silly cows, and, maybe, a bull! He wondered what a bull would think of him if he saw him; nothing flattering, probably. On the whole, he decided that he would a little rather not run across a bull this morning. Then suddenly he heard, far away and indistinct, the Vagabond’s whistle. He knew it too well to mistake it.

“Go on and blow it,” he muttered. “Hope your arm gets tired. You won’t see me until I’ve had some breakfast, I can tell you that. That’s right, blow, blow! Who the dickens cares?”

From the direction of the sound it was evident to him that he had left the river almost directly behind him. But what bothered him at the present moment more than the location of the river and the Vagabond was the location of the house and something to satisfy the craving of his empty stomach. He strove to remember what he knew about farms. Usually, he thought, the vegetable fields were near the buildings and the meadows at a distance, although he didn’t suppose there was any hard and fast rule about it. Then it dawned on him that for a meadow this one was unusually well kept. The grass was short and thick and the field quite level. He wondered if it could be a lawn. He would explore it.

So, rather stiff by this time, he slipped off the wall and started straight ahead across the turf. Presently he came to a ridge some three feet high, rounded and turfed. He stopped and wondered. It disappeared on either side of him into the surrounding grayness. He climbed to the top of it and looked down. On the other side was a six-foot ditch of coarse sand. He was on a golf links and the ridge was a silly old bunker!

He slid down on the other side of it and rested there with his wet shoes in the sand. It was all very nice, he told himself, to know that you were on a golf course, but it didn’t help very much. A chap could be just as lost, just as wet and miserable and hungry on a golf course as anywhere else. Somewhere, of a certainty, there was a clubhouse, but if he knew where it stood and could find it it was more than probable that it would be closed up on a day like this. And, anyhow, they wouldn’t be serving breakfast there! The idea of sitting just where he was until some one came along suggested itself but didn’t appeal to him. Once he thought he heard a noise of some sort, but he wasn’t sure. However, he got up and headed in the direction from which it had seemed to come. After a minute or two he came to a green with a soggy red tin disk, numbered fourteen, sticking out of a hole.

“Glad it wasn’t thirteen,” said Tom to himself as he went on. “That might have been unlucky.”

Presently it seemed that the fog had lessened and that his range of vision had enlarged; he was quite sure that he could discern objects at a greater distance than before. But as there wasn’t at that moment anything particularly interesting to discern the discovery didn’t bring much encouragement. He was going up a steep hill now and when he had gained the summit and seated himself for a moment on the edge of the sand box, which stood there at the edge of a tee, he saw that the fog was thinner because he was higher up. Behind him the ground sloped away again, but not so abruptly as in front. As he sat there, struggling for breath after his climb, it seemed that he was the only person in existence. On all sides of him the hill lost itself in the enveloping mists. He was alone in an empty gray space in which there was neither food nor fire. He got quite discouraged about it and a little watery at the eyes until he shook himself together and told himself that he was a baby.

“There are houses and people all around you,” he said disgustedly, “only you can’t see them. All you’ve got to do is to brace up and keep on walking until you find them.”

But that was easier said than done, for he had been walking a long time, and for much of that time over hard ground, and his legs were tired out. But he went on presently, slowly and discouragedly, down a long slope and up another. He had begun to talk aloud to himself for very loneliness, and some of the things he said would have sounded quite ridiculous had there been anyone else to hear them.

At the summit of the slope he paused again to rest, and as he did so he suddenly lifted his head intently, straining his eyes before him into the fog. Of course it was all perfect tommyrot, but, just the same – well, it did sound like music! In fact, it was music, very faint and sometimes dying away altogether, but still music!

“Maybe,” said Tom aloud, “I’ve starved to death and got to heaven. But I don’t feel dead.” Then, with returning animation, he strode forward again. “Me for the music,” he said.

Less than a minute later a great dark bulk took shape and form ahead of him. At first it seemed like the edge of a woods, but as the music increased momentarily that was out of the question. No, plainly it was a building, and a big one! And in another minute Tom was standing in a gravel roadway in front of a big hotel which stretched away on either side of him. There were lights inside, and an orchestra was playing merrily. The windows of the lower floor were dimmed with the fog, but he could see the indistinct forms of persons inside and the dancing light of a fire. Directly in front of him was a covered porch and beyond it the wide glass doors.

Tom drew the blanket from over his head, folded it as neatly as he might, laid it across his arm and, bareheaded and bedraggled, crossed the porch, opened the door and went in.

He found himself in a great, luxuriously furnished hall. At the back a wide staircase ascended. In the center a huge fireplace held a pile of blazing logs. Beyond it, half obscured by palms in tubs, a scarlet-coated orchestra was playing. To his right was a long counter behind which two immaculate clerks moved. About the fireplace and spreading across the big exchange were seated many persons. They had been talking very industriously until the door opened. But for some reason at Tom’s advent the conversation lessened and lessened until, as he walked across the shining oak floor, there was an impressive silence. The two clerks stopped their work and gazed at him in amused surprise. Tom, aware of the effect he was causing but caring not at all, stopped at the desk, stuck his hands in his pockets and addressed the nearest clerk in the calmest manner possible.

“I would like to see the manager, if you please,” said Tom.

CHAPTER XIX – NARRATES A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE

The fog held close until just before sunset, although there were times when the three on the Vagabond could make out the shore quite distinctly and thereby gained a very fair notion of where they lay. When the mist finally disappeared inland they found their notion to be correct. The launch lay some hundred yards from shore to the east of the river’s mouth. Just how they had managed to reach the position it was hard to say, although Nelson’s idea was that they had become both actually and metaphorically turned around when the launch had gone aground and had subsequently, instead of running upstream, crossed it diagonally and passed out toward the east.

It was a long day. The Vagabond rolled sleepily from side to side in the slow swells and seemed very bored and weary. The boys played cards for a while after luncheon, but, as Dan remarked, there wasn’t a decent game that three could play. So they threw down the cards in disgust and went to writing letters. But, somehow, inspiration didn’t come very well, and finally Nelson gave up the attempt in despair and went out to the engine room and “fiddled with the engine”; the expression is Dan’s. Nelson could always manage to spend an hour or so quite contentedly with wrenches and pliers, oil cans and emery cloth and a nice big bunch of cotton waste. Just what he accomplished this afternoon I can’t say; but he killed fully an hour.

In the meanwhile both Bob and Dan had taken to their bunks and had succeeded in getting to sleep. And so it was Nelson who discovered that the fog was lifting when, his “fiddling” completed, he put his head out of the door to toss a bunch of very dirty waste overboard. As the easiest way to awaken the sleepers he gave a long blast on the whistle. The effect was almost magical. Dan jumped clear out of the bunk and landed very wide-awake in the middle of the floor. Bob managed to escape with a bump on the side of his head. After recovering themselves they descended wrathfully on Nelson, demanding explanations. Nelson, wedged in a corner between the engine and the ice box, explained and was permitted to adjust his rumpled attire. Whereupon all went out to the dripping cockpit and watched the land appear slowly before them out of the gray void. It was like watching the development of a negative in the dark-room. At first there was a blank expanse of gray. Then a shadow appeared, dark and formless. Then a bit of the low-lying shore stood out boldly, its colors still blurred by the dissolving mist. And presently the sun appeared in the west, a hazy orange disk at the end of a funnel of orange light. And then, in an instant, the fog was nowhere to be seen save that here and there on an inland hillside a wisp of gray, like a floating veil, hung entangled amidst trees or bowlders. And with the returning sunlight came a brisk breeze from the south that stirred the oily surface of the water into tawny ripples that began to lap cheerfully against the hull of the Vagabond. Dan started to whistle blithely.

A few minutes later the launch was speeding back across the bar, bound for the little cove where they had left Tom. That young gentleman’s fate had not greatly bothered his friends, although there had been throughout the day much idle speculation as to his probable whereabouts. Tom could look after himself, said Dan, and the others agreed. But when they reached the cove and the little beach with the blackened embers disfiguring the clean gravel and saw no Tommy they were at once surprised and disappointed. Bob was even inclined to be indignant.

“Where the dickens has he gone to?” he asked. “He might have known we’d be back for him as soon as the fog cleared away.”

“Well, I suppose we could hardly expect him to spend the day here waiting for us,” said Nelson. “Probably he found a house where he could get dry and have something to eat. As we can’t see any from here maybe he had to go quite a ways. We’ll wait a while and see if he doesn’t turn up.”

“Bet you he’s asleep in the best bed in the house,” laughed Dan. “We’ll be lucky if he turns up before to-morrow noon. Tommy’s just as likely as not to sleep the clock around if there’s nobody there to wake him up!”

“I suppose,” said Bob, “we might as well have something to eat while we wait.” But Dan demurred.

“No, let’s go back to New London and get a good feed. We’ll wait until six-thirty and if he doesn’t show up by that time – Say, maybe he’s gone back to New London himself!”

“I’ll bet he has,” Nelson agreed. “Let’s go and see.”

So they returned up the broad twilit stream and made their former berth near the ferry slip. A hasty toilet followed and then they hurried up the street to the hotel. But no Tommy awaited them. The clerk assured them that no one answering to the description which they gave had been seen that day. Nor did the register show Tom’s elegant handwriting. But after the first moment of disappointment they comforted themselves with the assurance that the missing member of the crew was quite safe somewhere, and went in to dinner. Nor did anxiety over Tom’s fate interfere with their appetites.

Up until bedtime they expected at any moment to see Tom stumble down the steps, and when, at half-past nine, lights went out it was unanimously decided to leave the hatch unlocked in case he should turn up during the night. Once, along toward morning, Bob was dimly aware of some one moving about the cabin.

“That you, Tommy?” he asked sleepily.

But if there was any answer he didn’t hear it, for he fell asleep again immediately. In the morning, in the act of yawning and stretching his arms over his head, he recollected the noise in the night and looked inquiringly at Tom’s bunk. But it hadn’t been slept in. Bob puzzled over this fact for a moment. Then —

“Where’s Tom?” he asked.

“How the dickens do I know?” asked Dan, sitting up in his berth.

“Didn’t he come back last night? I heard some one and I thought sure it was Tommy.”

“That was me,” said Nelson, opening his eyes. “You asked if it was Tommy and I said No. I was closing the ports. The wind and rain were just drowning me out.”

“Rain!” exclaimed Bob and Dan simultaneously. Then —

“Gee, what a storm!” muttered Dan, as he subsided after a glance through the nearest port. “I see where we stay in New London for a day or two.”

“Well,” said Bob philosophically, “it’s better to be here than tied up in some little old cove along the Sound. We can go ashore, at least.”

“That’s so,” agreed Dan. “And maybe there’ll be another show at the theater.”

During the night a heavy gale from the southwest had sprung up and now the rain was beating fiercely against the cabin sides and playing a tattoo on the roof. There was a stiff wind behind it and the waves were running high. Under the double assault the Vagabond was heaving at her lines and grinding dismally against the pier. Nelson, pulled on his oilskins and hurried out to see that the fenders were in place. In a minute he was back, wet and glistening.

“It’s a peach of a storm, all right,” he said, shedding his oilskins. “The old sailors along the Cape used to tell us that a storm from the southeast was good for three days and one from the southwest was soon over. But it doesn’t look like it now.”

It was so dark in the cabin that when Bob brought the breakfast to the table it was necessary to light the lamps in order to distinguish the scrambled eggs from the hashed brown potatoes. But it was very jolly to sit there with the fragrant steam from the coffee cup curling up past their noses and hear the rain rattle and sweep against the boat and see it go trickling down the port lights. Barry sat on the edge of a bunk and stared solicitously at Dan every time the latter raised his fork to his mouth. Dan would never feed him at table, but all of the others did so whenever they thought they would be undetected. Bob believed he saw a chance to transfer a half a slice of bread and butter from his plate to Barry’s mouth, but Dan interposed a quick hand and the bread went flying across the cabin to land face downward on Tom’s pillow.

“If Tommy was here,” laughed Nelson, “I know what he’d say.”

“‘Hope you ch-ch-ch-choke!’” mimicked Nelson. “Barry can have it now, can’t he, Dan?” he continued, as he rescued the bread and wiped the worst of the grease from the pillowcase with his napkin.

“After we’re through,” said Dan inexorably.

“Hard-hearted brute!” said Bob. “Why don’t you change masters, Barry? I’d be dre’ful good to you!”

“Wonder if Tommy’s getting any breakfast,” observed Nelson thoughtfully.

“Of course he is,” answered Dan, buttering another piece of bread. “Why, look at the time! He’s had two or three breakfasts by this!”

“It’s funny, though, that he doesn’t turn up,” said Bob. “If we don’t find him to-day I think we ought to do something.”

“What?” asked Dan disconcertingly.

“Advertise in the Lost and Found column of the local paper,” suggested Nelson.

“We ought to go back and look for him,” said Bob.

“But we did look,” Nelson expostulated. “If he wasn’t there last night it isn’t likely he’d be there to-day.”

“He might have gone somewhere and spent the day,” said Bob. “Then maybe he’d expect us to come back to the cove for him this morning.”

“Well, he isn’t likely to wait for us long in this storm,” commented Dan. “And we couldn’t get down there very well, anyhow. I hope he’s keeping dry and warm, wherever he is, but I do think he was a silly ass to get lost again. This is the third time since we got together.”

“Second,” said Bob.

“Third. Don’t you remember how we lost him in Boston the day we bought things for the boat? And found him sitting in the cockpit eating caramels when we reached the wharf?”

“That’s so,” laughed Nelson. “If we were detectives all we’d have to do would be to go to the candy stores and describe him.”

“Wherever he is,” said Bob, “I suppose he doesn’t know whether we’ve returned to New London or gone on to New Haven or somewhere else.”

“All he has to do is to go back to the place we left him,” said Dan. “And if he ever does come back I vote we forbid him to leave the boat alone. We’ll never get anywhere if we have to stop all along the way and look for him.”

“Well,” said Nelson, “we’ll go up to the hotel again after a while and leave word for him in case he comes there to inquire.”

“It would be just like him to jump a train and go home to Chicago,” observed Dan.

“Don’t believe he has money enough,” Nelson replied.

“He probably didn’t have any with him,” said Bob. “He had his ducks on, didn’t he?”

“No, he wore that old gray suit of his,” Dan answered. “But I guess you’re right about the money. I doubt if he had a cent.”

“Well, he’ll manage all right,” said Nelson cheerfully. “He has plenty of cheek, you know. If he doesn’t show up by afternoon we’d better go and have a look for him just as soon as the weather will let us. We’ll run back to the cove and go ashore. He’s probably in some farm-house around there.”

Just before noon they wandered up the wharf and across the tracks to the station, for want of anything more exciting to do, and stood on the platform for a while watching the trains come and go. Finally Bob said:

“Come on, fellows; if I stay here any longer I’ll just have to get on a train and go somewhere!”

“That’s what I’m going to do,” said Dan resolutely. “I’m going to New York.”

“What?” exclaimed the others.

“I might as well. We can’t get out of here before to-morrow and I can be at home by three, spend the night and get back here by nine or ten to-morrow. Do you fellows mind?”

“Of course not,” answered Nelson.

“You see, I haven’t seen the folks since the Spring recess,” said Dan. “And I’m only three hours from New York, and – ”

“Guess I’ll take a run up to Portland,” said Bob with a smile.

“And I’ll go with you as far as Boston,” said Nelson.

“If you really rather I wouldn’t go – ” began Dan.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Nelson. “We don’t mind. Go ahead. It’s a good scheme. But mind you don’t forget to come back!”

“Not likely! I’ll be here to-morrow forenoon. Come on over to the boat and help me put some things in a bag. There’s a train in about twelve minutes.”

A quarter of an hour later only Bob and Barry and Nelson remained. They had seen Dan off on the Bay State Limited and were on their way to the hotel for luncheon, the skirts of their oilskins wrapping around their legs and impeding progress at every gust of the wind that tore up the street. They weren’t particularly hungry, but the hotel promised more excitement than the launch on a day like this. After luncheon they went to the writing room and wrote letters to everyone they could think of, Bob supplementing the letters with a number of souvenir post cards. They killed three hours quite easily and went back to the Vagabond at four o’clock. The rain had slackened considerably, but the wind still blew hard and gustily. The dark, leaden clouds which closed down upon the world showed no signs of breaking. They spent the rest of the afternoon as best they might, each rather dispirited and decidedly bored. At half-past five Bob went out and bought supplies for the larder and cooked dinner aboard when he returned. Neither he nor Nelson was very hungry and the meal was rather a silent one. After the things were cleared up they tried to read, but even that didn’t satisfy their restlessness, and when, at a little before nine, Bob wandered out to look at the weather and came back with the information that the moon was almost through the clouds and that the rain had ceased entirely and to the proposal that they take a walk Nelson assented eagerly. They got back into their oilskins and thick shoes, locked the door behind them and started out.