of it; then we can use our canvas to help us along. Steer for me, Budge, while I get sail on her!"

Soon outer jib, jumbo and mainsail were set and trimmed close, and Spurling again took the helm. The Barracouta ran southeast through Merchant's Row, a procession of rugged islets slipping by on either side; then south past Fog and York islands, with the long, high ridge of Isle au Haut walling the western horizon; down between Great Spoon and Little Spoon, past White Horse and Black Horse, toward the heaving blue of the open ocean.

A grum, melancholy note came floating over the long sea swells—Oo-oo-oo-ooh! And again, Oo-oo-oo-ooh!

"What's that!" exclaimed Percy.

"Whistling buoy south of Roaring Bull Ledge. One of our nearest neighbors. We'll hear that voice pretty often, when the wind's from the north."

They passed two miles east of the whistler, and gradually its warning blast grew fainter and fainter. On the horizon straight ahead a little black mound was slowly rising above the breaking waves. Jim swung his hand toward it.

"There's Tarpaulin! Our home for the next three months! Looks kind of small and lonesome when you're running offshore for it; but it's pretty good to make after an all-day fishing-trip. What's the matter, Whittington?"

Percy's face was somewhat white; for the last half-hour he had been strangely subdued.

"I don't feel very good," said he.

Spurling eyed him critically, then scanned the faces of the others. The Barracouta was rising and falling on the long swells in a manner decidedly disconcerting to weak stomachs. Stevens and the young Italian did not look much happier than Percy. Jim could not help smiling a little.

"Good seasick weather!" he observed, judicially. "Excuse me for laughing, boys! It's a mean thing to do, but I can't help it. I've been there myself—years ago. You'll be worse before you're better."

They were, considerably, all three, Percy in particular. For the next hour conversation dragged; but all the while Tarpaulin loomed larger and larger. To Jim it wore the aspect of an old friend, and he dilated on its features for the benefit of the others.

"You see that western end is fifty acres of pasture, sloping north; those gray dots are sheep grazing. The eastern half is just scrub evergreen. That little cove on the northeast corner's the Sly Hole; you mightn't think it, but a good-sized schooner can ride there at low tide. Pretty rocky all round. Always a surf breaking on one side or the other. Our landing-place is on the south."

Before long the Barracouta and her tow were skirting the eastern ledges. Under the island it was comparatively calm, and the seasick three felt better. Then, as they rounded a wooded promontory and turned west, it grew rough again, but only for a few minutes. Spurling steered the sloop into calm water behind the protecting elbow of another point, off which lay the half-submerged hulk of a wrecked vessel.

"Sprawl's Cove!" exclaimed Jim. "How do you like the looks of your hotel, Whittington?"

III

TARPAULIN ISLAND

Curiosity dispelled the last vestiges of Percy's seasickness. For a little while he gazed without speaking.

A cove four hundred feet wide opened toward the south between two rocky points. At its head a pebbly beach sloped up to a sea-wall, behind which a growth of cattails bespoke a stagnant lagoon. Still farther back a steep bank of dirt rose to the overhanging sod of the pasture.

From the western point a spur extended into the cove, forming a little haven amply large enough for a modest fleet of fishing-boats. Near by on the sea-wall stood two structures, one low, oblong, flat-roofed, with a rusty iron stovepipe projecting from its farther end; the other a small, paintless shed with a large door. Percy gave them only a casual glance.

"You said we were going to live in a camp. Where is it?"

Jim pointed to the first structure.

"There! It's the cabin of an old vessel that came ashore here in a southerly gale years ago. Uncle Tom jacked it up a foot, put in a good floor, and made it into a first-rate camp. It's got bunks for half a dozen, and at a pinch could hold more. The roof's a bit leaky, but we'll soon fix that. There's a good stove, and always plenty of driftwood on the beach. It's a mighty snug place on a stormy day."

Percy turned up his nose at this list of good points.

"What's that pile of chicken-coops near it?"

"Lobster-traps."

"And that big box with its top just above water?"

"A lobster-car. All that we catch in the traps we put in there until the smack comes."

The mooring-buoy was now alongside. Making the Barracouta fast, the boys went ashore in the dory and pea-pod. Percy became conscious that he was thirsty.

"Where can I get a drink?"

"There's the spring at the foot of that bank."

Opening a trap-door in a rude wooden cover, Percy looked down into a shallow well. The only cup at hand was an empty tin can. Rather disdainfully he dipped it full and tasted, then spat with a wry face.

"It's brackish!" he called out, indignantly. "I can't drink that."

Spurling and the others were hard at work unloading the boats. Percy repeated his complaint:

"I can't drink that stuff."

Jim was staggering up the beach, a heavy box of groceries in his arms.

"Sorry!" he replied, indifferently. "That's what all the rest of us'll have to drink. It isn't Poland water, but I've tasted worse."

Percy slammed down the cover and tossed away the can in a huff. Lane was passing boxes and bundles ashore from the dory to Stevens and Filippo.

"Catch hold here, Whittington, and help tote some of this stuff up to the cabin," exhorted Budge.

Percy complied ungraciously; but he was careful not to tackle anything very heavy.

"I didn't come out here to make a pack-mule of myself," was his mental remark.

Jim unfastened the rusty padlock on the cabin door and stepped inside. Percy followed him, eager to get a glimpse of his new home.

The camp had not been opened for some weeks; it smelled close and stuffy. As Percy crossed its threshold his nostrils were greeted by a mingled odor of salt, tarred rope, and decaying wood, flavored with a faint suggestion of fish. Mastering his repugnance, he looked about.

He saw a single, low room, nine by fifteen, dimly lighted by three small windows, one in the farther end directly opposite the door, the remaining two facing each other in the middle of the long sides. Along the right wall on each side of the central window was built a tier of two bunks. On Percy's left, over a wooden sink in the corner near the door, was a rough cupboard. Next came a small, rusty stove with an oven for baking; then, under the window, an unpainted table; and on the wall beyond, a series of hooks from which were suspended various articles of clothing and coils of rope. Empty soap-boxes supplied the place of chairs.

With nose uplifted and a growing disgust on his features, Percy surveyed the cramped, dingy room.

"How do you like it?" asked Spurling.

"You don't mean to say that five of us have got to live in this hole?"

"Nowhere else, unless you want to stay out on the beach or in the fish-house."

"But where do we sleep?"

"There!" Jim gestured toward the wooden framework on the right wall.

Percy thrust his hand into one of the bunks.

"Why, there's no mattress or spring here! It's only a bare box!"

"That's just what it is, Whittington! You've hit the nail on the head this time.