twittering to each other, while here and there frisked little gray squirrels chattering excitedly over the fallen acorns.

Captain Westfield drew in a long breath of the sweet flower-scented air. "I am going to like Clearwater," he declared.

"Well, we are going to have lots of time to get acquainted with it," observed Charley, practically. "We had better be moving on now, it is going to be a busy afternoon for us."

But at the end of the gently sloping street they paused again with murmurs of admiration. Before them a long wharf ran out into a great bay, its waters blue as indigo save where flecked by foaming white caps. Across on the other side of the bay, and about two miles distant, stretched a chain of white-beached islands between which the foamy churning breakers showed where the waters of the bay connected with the Gulf of Mexico. But our little party spent only a moment admiring the beautiful scene, they would have long weeks to admire its loveliness. Just now they were more interested in the wide snowy beach on either side of the wharf. Here was a living picture of part, at least, of their new occupation. The shore was dotted with groups of fishermen engaged in tasks pertaining to their calling. Some were busy mending long nets stretched out on racks of poles. Some were pulling nets into their boats preparatory to a start for the fishing grounds. Others, just in from a trip, were pulling their wet nets out to dry. Still others were busy calking, painting and repairing their skiffs upturned on the beach, while here and there little groups were engaged over camp-fires from which rose appetizing odors of frying fish and steaming coffee. Close in to the beach the fishing fleet lay bobbing at anchor, a hundred skiffs and at least half as many motor boats.

As our little party stood watching the busy scene, a motor boat with three skiffs in tow came chugging in for the beach. When within a stone's throw of the shore it rounded up and anchored. Almost before the anchor had touched bottom a man had jumped into each skiff, cast it lose from the launch, and was sculling in for the beach. Our little party joined the group that gathered at the water's edge to meet the newcomers. The skiffs lay deep in the water and the reason was apparent when they grounded on the sands. Each was heaped from thwart to thwart with flat silver colored fish.

"Pompano!" exclaimed Charley.

"Pompano," snarled a sallow-faced, tough-looking fisherman near him. "That's just the luck of that Roberts gang. Tarnation stuck up guys. Won't have nothing to do with us fishermen. Think themselves too good. They are greenhorns too. Only started fishing this season. They have regular fools' luck though. Just like their luck to hit a nice bunch like that when better fishermen are coming in without a fish. They had ought to be run out of Clearwater."

The man in the nearest skiff heard the sneer and his good-humored face took on a look of scorn. He surveyed the speaker from head to foot as though he was examining some strange kind of animal. Then he spoke slowly and deliberately.

"Run us out of town, you cowardly cur?" "Why, there isn't enough of your kind in the state of Florida to run one Roberts. If you ever ran anything in your life it was a rabbit. I've heard enough of your sneers and I give you notice right now to quit. Yes, the Roberts boys do consider themselves too good to associate with you and your kind. Not because you are fishermen but because you are lazy, lying, thieving, rum-drinking bums. It's time some one told you the truth about yourself. You and your gang seem to have the rest of the fishermen bluffed so they will stand for your sneers. You talk about luck. Well, maybe it is luck, but let me tell you there's mighty hard work to back it up. We have hunted over fifty miles of water, been without sleep for thirty-six hours, and worked 'til we can hardly stand, for these fish. Luck! You make me sick! If you worked one night a week like we work right along your poor little wife would not have to work her fingers to the bone over the wash-tub to support you. Hunter, you are a disgrace to mankind."

The sallow fisherman's face went livid and he gasped and spluttered with rage. His hands clenched and he made a movement towards the man in the skiff but evidently prudence got the better of his rage.

"I'll pay you for this, Bill Roberts. I'll pay you out. You see if I don't," he cried.

"I know what you are thinking about," returned Roberts in level tones. "I know of the tricks you have played on other men that have crossed you. I know what happened to them, but don't you think for a moment that I'll make the mistake they made in going to law about it when they couldn't prove anything. If any such accidents happen to us, I'll not go to law about it. I'll beat the miserable little soul out of your body. Get away from here or I may do it now."

Hunter slunked away muttering curses and the other fishermen strolled off behind him.

Bill Roberts looked after them with a grin. "That fellow gets my goat," he chuckled. "I'm sorry I lost my temper but I'm about worn out from work and loss of sleep and my nerves are on wire edge. I've no use for that fellow anyway, and I guess I would have told him my opinion of him, sooner or later."

"You seem to have been fairly well paid for your hard work," observed Captain Westfield. "You've got twenty or thirty dollars' worth there, haven't you?"

Charley chuckled and Bill Roberts grinned.

"I see you don't savey pompano," he said. "They are a scarce fish. I reckon we've got one thousand pounds of them and they are worth forty cents a pound. Figger that out, Mister."

"Four hundred dollars," gasped Walter. "Whew! I hope we strike a few bunches like that, Charley."

"You folks going to fish, eh?" enquired Roberts. "Well, it's a good healthy business and it pays well for hard work. We don't often strike a bunch like this, but by keeping steady at it, we always make pretty good money. The worst drawback about fishing is the men in it. Take my advice and avoid them all you can. Don't get mixed up with that Hunter gang anyway if you can help it. Drop into our camp,—it's right over there on Tates Island,—whenever you feel like it, and we will give you all the pointers we can."

Charley thanked the friendly fisherman. "We will be over there soon," he promised. "We are new to the place and we would like to get some pointers right off but we are just getting settled and must hurry off now."

"I like that gang," he said to his companions as they hurried out on the long dock. "They seem of a better class than those other fishermen."

"They would not have to be very good to be that," observed Captain Westfield, gravely. "Those fishermen are a tough looking lot. I hope we will not have any trouble with them."

"We will not have any," said Walter, cheerfully. "If we just tend to our own business I guess they will tend to theirs. Well, I guess these are the houses Mr. Daniels spoke about."

They had reached the end of the long dock. On one side of it stood a row of small shacks. Most of them were occupied but at last they came upon a large one that stood empty.

"Golly," exclaimed Chris, as he peeped inside, "dar poor white trash dat lived in dis was sho' dirty."

The floor was thickly covered with filth and rubbish, the walls were tobacco stained, and the windows were broken and covered with grime.

"We'll soon make it look different," said Captain Westfield, cheerfully. "Let's go to work with some system and we'll soon be comfortably settled. Walter, you make out a list of what we need and go up to the store. Charley, see what you can do