done," answered Paul, who, though he had already decided this important question, would not permit his passenger to enter into his counsels, preferring to tantalize him by his mysterious manner.

"Let us get ashore, Paul, as soon as possible."

"Going to back out?"

"No; what's the use of talking in that way, about backing out, when you can't carry sail?" replied Thomas, whose pride was still unconquered, though his courage was rapidly failing him.

"I shall rig a new sprit; there's the boat-hook, which will make a very good one; it is just the right length."

"I'll give up then, and back out," said Thomas, despairing of any relief from the misfortunes that had befallen the boat.

"Don't back out on my account; I will put you ashore at the Point, if you say the word," replied Paul, satisfied now that he had kept his promise and given his friend enough of it.

"Run for the shore, Paul."

"Just as you say;" and the boatman, proud of the triumph he had won over his boastful companion, turned the boat's head towards the shore.

The corner of the sail hung down for the want of a sprit to support it, but as they had the wind free, there was canvas enough to drive her rapidly towards the shore. While they were still half a mile from the cove, Thomas called Paul's attention to a horse and chaise on the beach, from which a man was making violent gestures for them to come ashore.

CHAPTER III.

PAUL HEARS BAD NEWS.

"Who is it, Tom?" asked Paul, very anxiously.

"I don't know; can't make him out."

"What can he want with us?"

"Perhaps your mother has sent him after her runaway boy; but whoever he is, I will tell him you are a fellow of the right spunk."

"Who can it be?"

"What matter who it is? Your mother won't whip you—will she?"

"No, of course not. My mother don't whip me."

"I thought she did, you seem so much afraid of her."

"I am not afraid of her."

"If you are, there is nothing else that can frighten you."

"I mind my mother because she is my mother; because I like to do so, and not because I am afraid of her. You had better not say much more about being afraid, Tom."

"Do you mean to say I was afraid?" said Thomas, smartly.

"If you wasn't afraid, you was confoundedly scared," replied Paul, whose paradox was fully appreciated by his companion.

"Look here, Paul; are you going to tell the fellows that I was scared?" demanded Thomas, rather in a beseeching than an intimidating tone.

"That will depend on circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"You may as well understand me first as last. You keep talking about my being afraid of my mother, and all that sort of stuff. I'm not afraid of her, and I don't like to be told that I am."

"I won't say it again, then."

"Fellows that live in glass houses mustn't throw stones."

"Do you really think I was frightened, Paul?"

"I really think you was. Didn't you back out?"

"Not till the sail broke down."

"I offered to fix that."

"It's no use to risk a fellow's life for nothing."

"That's the point exactly. Don't you say a word about my mother, and you may talk as big as you please about this scrape."

"I'm not going to talk big about it. I shall give you all the credit you deserve."

"Of course you will. The fellow that holds the bag can let the cat out when he chooses. I don't like to have my mother spoken of as you speak of your mother. She's my mother, and she has always been a good mother to me, and I would do anything in the world for her. There's only one thing about this scrape that I'm sorry for; and that is, that I didn't mind her. It makes me feel bad."

"She won't say much to you; she will be so glad to have you safely home, that she won't feel like jawing you," answered Thomas, in what he intended for words of consolation, but which were really heartless and offensive to the penitent.

"My mother don't jaw; it will make her feel bad that I didn't mind her; and that is ten times worse than a scolding or a whipping.—That man keeps shaking his hat to us. Who do you think it is?"

"It looks like Captain Littleton."

"What can he want of me?" said Paul, anxiously.

"If it is Captain Littleton, it is more like he wants me."

In a few moments more the boat darted into the cove, and the boys recognized Captain Littleton in the gentleman who had been beckoning to them.

"Come ashore, Paul, as quick as you can!" shouted he, as he jumped into his chaise, and drove nearer to the point where the boat was to land.

"Do you want me, sir?" asked Paul.

"Yes; you are wanted at home."

Our hero was filled with terror and anxiety by this reply. He was sure that something had happened, or a gentleman like Captain Littleton would not have taken the trouble to come after him. As the boat struck the bank, he brailed up the sail, and jumped ashore with the painter in his hand.

"Come, Paul, never mind the boat; Thomas will take care of her. Get into the chaise with me as quick as you can," said Captain Littleton.

"What is the matter, sir? What has happened?" demanded Paul, trembling with the most painful solicitude.

"Get into the chaise first, and I will tell you as we return."

"Has anything happened to my mother, sir?" cried Paul, the tears rushing to his eyes.

"Nothing has happened to your mother, Paul. She is quite well," answered Captain Littleton, as he urged the horse to his utmost speed.

Paul was greatly relieved by this assurance, though it was still evident from the manner of the gentleman, and the speed at which he drove the horse, that some dreadful event had occurred. His conscience smote him for his disobedience to his mother, and he was not in a fit moral condition to meet the shock of adversity with courage and fortitude. He would have given the world, in that anxious moment, to have undone the work of the last three hours, and effaced their record from his conscience.

"Tell me what has happened, if you please, sir," he continued. "Is any of the folks dead? You say it is not my mother."

"Your mother is quite well, and none of your family are dead, though——"

Captain Littleton paused, and looked at the boy's face, which was still bathed in tears. He saw the misery that he was enduring, and he hesitated to utter words which he knew must carry grief and woe to his heart.

"You must be calm and firm, Paul," continued the kind gentleman. "It is not so bad as you suppose, and we may hope for the best. Your father has just met with a serious accident."

"Is he dead, sir?" gasped Paul. "You don't tell me the whole story, sir."

"He is not dead, Paul; but he is very badly hurt."

"He is alive, then?"

"He is."

Paul closely scrutinized the expression of Captain Littleton, fearful that he had not told him the whole truth.

"Are you sure he was not killed?" he asked, still unsatisfied.

"He was alive when I left him, but that was nearly an hour ago."

"I am thankful if he is alive. How did it happen, sir?"

"He fell from the bow of the ship upon which he was at work, and struck a pile of timber. I am afraid he is very badly hurt. I happened to be near the shipyard at the time, and assisted in carrying him home. He is conscious, and asked for you. Your mother said you were out in the boat."

Paul burst into tears again at these words, for he realized the nature and depth of his mother's