she’d never let him go camping with other fellows, though he’s begged to go. Afraid he’d get hurt. It took a lot of argument on Densmore’s part to get her permission to let him come with us.”

“One of those young hopefuls, isn’t he, that thinks his father is rich and there’s no use of his ever doing anything but spend money?” suggested Ainsworth. “From the little I’ve seen of him, he’ll spend it, all right, too.”

At that moment the boat hove alongside, and a tall, sallow-faced lad, perhaps seventeen years of age, a cigarette hanging at the corner of his mouth, tossed a bill to the boatman, languidly rose to his feet, caught the rope ladder lying over the ship’s side, and with difficulty climbed to the deck.

“Glad to see you, Paul,” greeted Remington. “We were getting a bit worried about you. You’re late.”

“Oh, I didn’t think there was any rush,” said Paul indifferently. “Stopped for luncheon at the hotel. Horrible stuff they serve there. It really isn’t fit to eat.”

“I’m afraid your appetite isn’t very good, Paul,” suggested Remington. “Wait till you get your lungs full of salt air, and rough it a bit; you’ll think anything is good then.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Paul remarked indifferently, as he lounged back upon a chair, drew a fresh cigarette from a silver case, lighted it, flicked some ashes from his white flannel trousers and casually surveyed the deck. “What a rum old ship this is!” he continued. “I thought we were going to have a comfortable yacht.”

“The North Star isn’t much to look at,” admitted Remington, “but she’s the best sort of a ship for our trip. No ordinary yacht would do. We’re going to rough it good and plenty, you know.”

“That so? What kind of roughing it?”

“Hunting, fishing, camping, and that sort of thing. I hope we’ll have some good bear hunting before we get back.”

“Bear hunting!” Paul was interested at once. “What kind of bears shall we run across? Grizzlies?”

“No,” laughed Remington, “Polar bears.”

“Polar bear hunting! Cricky, but that’ll be great!” Paul sat up excitedly. “Where’re we going, Mr. Remington? I didn’t pay much attention to what Father said about it. I thought it was just an ordinary yachting trip.”

“You didn’t seem to have much interest in it, coming over on the train,” said Remington, and as he explained the region, the prospective hunting and fishing, and the adventure, Paul forgot his cigarette.

“That’s just the kind of trip I’ve wanted to take all my life,” he exclaimed. “May I shoot too?”

“Yes, I’ve a rifle and a shotgun among my things for you.”

“May I see them? I’ve always been just crazy for a gun!”

“Wait a moment.”

Remington went below and presently returned with a modern high-power rifle and a beautiful double-barreled shotgun. Paul’s eyes sparkled with delight and he listened with close attention while Remington explained their manipulation, with due caution as to their handling. Then he exclaimed:

“Good old Dad! He is a good scout to let me come with you! Ever so many thanks, Mr. Remington. Where are the cartridges?”

“They’re with mine. I’ll get them for you when you need them. You may as well take the guns down to your stateroom, though, when you go.”

“I guess I’ll go now, and unpack my things.”

“Very well. The steward will show you your room. You’ll find everything there. Abner,” turning to a bareheaded young sailor clad in blue flannel shirt, with sleeves rolled up, and trousers tucked into the tops of high sealskin boots, who was standing near the companionway, “this is Master Densmore. Will you show him to his room? Abner is the steward, Paul.”

“Yes, sir; this way, sir,” answered Abner, respectfully.

“He seems interested,” remarked Ainsworth when Paul had gone below. “I’m inclined to think he’s a pretty good fellow at heart after all. Just spoiled.”

“That’s so,” agreed Remington.

A moment later Paul reappeared from the companionway, and asked:

“Where are my trunks, Mr. Remington? The steward took me to a room he insists is mine, but my trunks aren’t there; just some canvas bags. Guess he’s trying to put me in the wrong room.”

“I left your trunks ashore, Paul.”

“Ashore! Why, all my things are in them! I can’t go without them! I’ve no clothes with me!”

“The canvas bags contain all the clothes you’ll need. Look through them and see what you think of the outfit. Your father selected them.”

“But my cigarettes! I packed them in one of the trunks!”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do without them. You’ll find you can shoot straighter if you don’t smoke. Cigarettes knock a fellow’s nerves all out, you know.”

“This is rum!” exclaimed the angry lad. “No cigarettes! Well, I’ll go down and see the stuff.”

“You’d better put on one of the warm suits you’ll find in your bags, Paul,” suggested Remington. “We’re getting out to sea, and it’ll be chilly on deck.”

Paul vouchsafed no reply, but he profited by the advice, and donned a complete new outfit of clothing suited to his surroundings.

“Look like a dago laborer, don’t I?” he asked Remington, whom he met at his stateroom door half an hour later.

“You look comfortably dressed,” was the reply. “You see I’ve adopted similar clothes.”

“You do look funny,” laughed Paul, “and that’s the way I feel. Mother would have a fit if she saw me now,” glancing down at his flannel shirt and heavy trousers and shoes. “Mr. Remington,” he continued, hesitatingly, “I—I want to apologize for what I said about the trunks and cigarettes. I can get on without cigarettes if they’d spoil my shooting.”

“That’s all right, Paul. They certainly would spoil your shooting.”

Captain Bluntt was in excellent humor when he took his place at the head of the supper table.

“So you’re the young rascal,” he said to Paul, “who kept us waiting at Sydney.”

“Oh, I guess there wasn’t any great rush,” answered Paul, somewhat nettled. “We’re on a pleasure trip, and not trying to break a record.”

Captain Bluntt looked at him curiously for a moment under his shaggy eyebrows.

“Not much of a sailor, I guess, youngster. Well, you’ll learn something before you gets home. Got a wonderful lot to learn, too.”

Paul flushed angrily, and retorted impudently and boastfully:

“Oh, I don’t know. This isn’t my first yachting trip. I know a thing or two about sailing. Captains of yachts don’t usually tell the guests what they’re to do.”

“Yacht, eh?” And Captain Bluntt laughed good-naturedly. “Well, well, don’t get grumpy. No offence meant. No doubt you’re a great sailor; you look it. Yes, you look it!” Turning from Paul as from a child whose presence he had quite forgotten, he remarked:

“She’s off in fine style, Mr. Remington, fine style! And we’ll make a rare fine run, sir, if the weather holds. Yes, sir, if the weather holds!”

“Is there much ice reported off the Labrador coast?”

“We’ll meet some ice, sir; bay ice. No trouble with that, sir. Plenty of bergs! Wonderful crop of bergs, sir!”

They had finished eating, and Captain Bluntt was striking a match to light