time being, however, he put them off with the explanation that the ticket register was out of order and the tickets were not yet ready. The family wagons and carryalls were beginning to come in, and by four o'clock or thereabouts the little place presented quite an animated appearance. The prospects for a crowd were good. Every minute I expected to hear the sound of the steamboat's whistle at the point announcing her arrival. It was getting along well in the afternoon when the thought entered my mind, 'Now, if by any chance the steamer should be delayed, what course would I pursue?'

"The more I turned the subject over in my mind the stronger I became impressed with the idea that desperate cases necessitate strenuous remedies. The heat of the afternoon became oppressive, and the haze had become a thick fog over the water. Occasionally it would lift slightly and then settle down more dense than before. Five o'clock came, and still no steamer. About ten minutes later we heard a sound that nearly knocked me out. It was the steamer with the other fellow's show. We heard the blow, but could not get a glimpse of the blowpipe. We could hear, but could not see. We remained on board some time, and then all hands went ashore. The fog still hung over the water and the whistle continued to blow. We resolved to play a desperate game. So long as the fog continued we were all safe, as I felt satisfied the captain of the steamer would not dare venture to run in closer to the shore at that stage of the tide, especially in such a fog.

"We hurried up to the tent and began to sell tickets. Buyers naturally made inquiries, but the ticket-seller economized considerably on the truth in his answers. We paid the farmer for his wagon that had been used by the band one half in cash and the balance in passes. Sharp at eight o'clock we rung the curtain up to a jammed house of the most astonished countrymen, women and children you ever set eyes upon. They did not know what to make of it, but they swallowed it all in the most good-natured manner possible. We introduced bits of 'The Old Homestead,' 'The Two Orphans,' 'Rip Van Winkle,' slices of Shakespeare, Augustus Thomas, George Ade, and other great writers, so you see we were giving them bits of the best living and dead dramatists. Our native Shakespeares do the same thing nowadays in all of their original works, and that's no idle fairy tale. We sandwiched comedy, drama, tragedy, and farce, and interlarded the mixture with Victor Herbert and Oscar Hammerstein's opera comique and May Irwin coon songs. Such a presentation of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' was never before presented, and I am free to confess the chances are never will be again. We actually played the town on the other fellow's paper. It wasn't exactly according to Hoyle, but then any reasonable thinking man will concede that necessity knows no law, and as the country people came to see a show it would have been a grievous sin to have disappointed them.

"It did not take us long to strike tent and hurry on board when the curtain fell on the last act. By this time the fog had lifted. As there was a breeze we made sail and stood out for the open sea. It was near the top of high water as we passed the point, and there we saw the steamer going in. She had run on a sandbar in the fog and was compelled to stay there for high water to get off. That's how the other fellow got left and how we turned his mishap to our advantage."

CHAPTER IV

"Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground....
The wills above be done, but I would fain die a dry death."

—Tempest.

By midnight the Gem of the Ocean was well out in the Sound. A stiff breeze was now blowing, and the little craft was footing it at a rapid rate. Handy was now in his native element. He and his company felt that they had turned a clever trick. It was an achievement worthy of the most accomplished barnstormer. The idea of playing the town on the other fellow's paper, ye gods! it was an accomplishment to feel proud of; something to be stored away in the memory; something to be set aside for future use when nights were long and congenial companions were gathered about a cheerful fireside to listen to stories of days gone by.

Supper disposed of, the company were grouped together near the companionway smoking the pipes of peace and anxious to discuss the next managerial move. Handy, of course, was the prime mover in all things—the one man to whom they all looked to pilot them safely through the difficulties they expected to encounter. So far they considered he had made good. He appeared to be in the best of spirits. Seated on an up-turned bucket, drawing meditatively on his well-seasoned briarwood, he looked a perfect picture of content. Not so, however, the "little 'un," as the boys playfully addressed the dwarf. The motion of the vessel did not harmonize with peculiarities of his interior arrangements, and unless the Gem stopped rolling and pitching there was evidently trouble ahead. Matters were approaching a crisis with him. He had little or nothing to say. In fact, he was doing his best, as he afterwards admitted, to keep his spirits up while he manfully struggled to keep material matter down.

"Is it always as rough as this, Handy?" he asked in a plaintive voice.

"Rough as this, eh, my bold buccaneer," responded Handy, cheerily; "rough as this? Why, there's scarcely a whitecap on the water. You ain't going to be seasick, are you? Well, at any rate, if you are, possibly it may be all for the best. 'Twill make a new man of you."

"Maybe he don't want to be made a new man of," suggested the low comedy man.

"Oh, cork up and give us a rest," appealed the Little 'Un, somewhat testily. "I'm all right, only I don't relish the confounded motion of the craft. First she rocks one way, then another, and then again she seems to have the fidgets, and pitches in fits and starts. I don't see any sense in it. Steamboats don't cut up such capers, at least, none of those that I've had any experience with."

"Brace up, my hearty," said Handy, removing the briarwood from his lips. "Brace up. You'll feel all right anon."

"Anon isn't half bad," again jocularly interposed the comedy gentleman.

The wind was gradually freshening. There was by this time quite a sea on, and the Little 'Un was beginning to succumb to the influence of prevailing conditions. A sudden gust struck the Gem, and, yielding to it, the group that was sitting so contentedly a few seconds before about the companionway went rolling in a heap down to leeward in the cockpit. This was altogether too much for the Little 'Un. He picked himself together as well as he could, and doubled over the rail, Handy holding on to his extremities. It was a trying scene for a time, and Handy had the worst of it.

"Steady there, now, old fellow, you'll feel all serene when you give up. There's no danger."

A minute or so later the poor little chap was taken from the rail as limp as a wet rag, and was stretched out on the deck with a coil of rope for a pillow.

"When you get me on a snap of this kind again," he began in a feeble voice, after he had somewhat recovered, "you just let me know. No more water adventures for me. I know when I have had enough. Dry land for mine hereafter."

Handy endeavored to console and cheer him up, but in vain. The poor sufferer was completely used up. He had yielded his gross receipts to Neptune, and would, at that particular moment, have mortgaged his prospects in the future to have been able to set foot on terra firma. With some little difficulty Handy and one of the crew succeeded in getting him below and stowed him away in a bunk.

The wind increased during the night, and by two in the morning it was blowing a half-gale. The Gem was trimmed down to close reefs, and all but the crew and Handy had turned in—but not to sleep. Handy, who was an