sponges. Oh, there's big money in it all right. But you can look into that part of the business closer later on. Now, I want to show you something of the sponges themselves. We will go down to the harbor first."

The interested little party followed him as he led the way along a soft sand road flanked by scrub palmettos.

Their guide paused beside one of the several large buildings standing close to the road. "This is a clipping shed," he said.

The building was open on one side and was filled with a crowd of old men, women and young boys, all Greeks. Before each was a pile of rough sponges from which they were clipping the spoilt parts with great shearing shears. In one corner, a man worked over a big screw-press, pressing the severed fragments of sponges into huge compact bales.

"That part isn't important enough to waste much time looking at," Mr. Driver said, as he turned away. "Come on and I'll show you something worth seeing."

As they followed along behind their guide, the boys became sensible of a strong, pleasant, appetizing odor in the air, an odor which grew stronger as they advanced. A turn in the road brought them suddenly upon the source of the odor. On the shore of a quiet little land-locked harbor, blazed dozens of small camp-fires over which sat great iron kettles. On pieces of canvas laid upon the ground were piles of fresh beef and mutton. Over each pile worked several Greeks cutting the meat with the sheaf knives into tiny squares about an inch in size. Other Greeks were dumping the little square pieces into the kettles, while still others kept the contents stirred and the fires under the kettles burning briskly.

"They are putting down the meat for their next voyage," explained Mr. Driver. "They roast it in its own fat, put it into stone jars, and pour the fat over it. As soon as the fat cools and congeals it forms an air-tight covering which keeps the meat from spoiling."

"If it tastes half as good as it smells, it must be delicious," Charley remarked.

Chris viewed the cooking operation with professional jealousy. "Golly, I bet dey can't cook like dis nigger," he declared, "I spect dem kettles ain't none too clean noway."

Captain Westfield gave but scant attention to the trying-out process. His interest was centered on the big fleet of schooners anchored near shore. They were over a hundred in number and were of all sizes and designs. They made a pretty sight lying gracefully close together in the little harbor. But the old sailor soon strolled on to where groups of Greeks were building and repairing boats on the shore. He inspected their work with a critical eye, but he was soon lost in admiration.

"Lads," he exclaimed, "I never saw such workmen before. They are turnin' out tight, neat seaworthy little crafts with no tools but a saw and a hatchet. Ain't those queer lookin' crafts though."

The boats were about thirty feet in length, sharp at both bow and stern, and of enormous depth for their size. True to their love for bright colors the Greeks had painted each plank a different hue and the little vessels looked like floating rainbows.

The captain viewed their single masts, which inclined aft at an angle of forty-five degrees, with deep-sea scorn.

"It's clean against Nature for a mast to be set that way," he declared. "It ain't regular or ship-shape."

"Those small crafts are used as diving boats," Mr. Driver explained. "They carry a big square sail, but most of them are equipped with engines also. They are great sea boats and will ride out a gale almost as well as the schooners."

His explanations were interrupted by loud talking close at hand and the little party, full of curiosity, hastened to the spot from which the uproar came.

In the center of a circle of curious onlookers, a large man wearing a marshal's badge was slipping a pair of handcuffs on the wrists of a slender boyish-looking young fellow.

"No need to put those things on me, Mr. Officer," the lad was protesting, passionately. "I'll go along with you without any trouble. I've only acted within my rights and all I want is a fair trial."

"Anything you say can be used against you at your trial," cautioned the marshal.

"I don't care, I admit I shot two of those treacherous Greeks. It was the only thing to do. When it came on to blow a gale, they refused to cut the cable, and work the schooner. It was a case of making them obey orders and get her off before the seas or lose my ship. I only wish I had shot more of them. They have been laying for me ever since to slip a knife into me and chuck me overboard. I haven't dared take a wink of sleep for three days and two nights."

"Poor fellow," said Mr. Driver, as the marshal led away his protesting captive. "I expect it happened just as he says—an open mutiny, compelling him to shoot—but every Greek in his crew will go on the stand and swear that it was a case of cold-blooded murder. Fortunately, the judge is wise to Greek methods and the law deals gently with commanders."

"He looked mighty young to be a captain," said Captain Westfield.

"It's this way," Mr. Driver explained, "the law compels the Greeks to have an American captain for each schooner and diving boat, and they hire the youngest and, therefore, cheapest man that they can get. It's a dog's life, out alone for months with a gang that doesn't speak a word of English. As long as the captain is content to be a mere figurehead he can get along without serious trouble, but the minute he runs counter to their wishes there is a row. But time is flying, and I must get back to the store. If you will come back with me I'll introduce you to a man who knows more about sponging than another American in the country."

"Just a moment, lads," said the Captain, as they turned to go. "Which of those schooners do you like the best?"

The two chums unhesitatingly indicated a beautiful two-masted, snow-white schooner that seemed to rest as loftily on the water as a floating swan. The grace and beauty of exquisite lines marked her out from the many shapely schooners surrounding her. In large gilt letters on either side of her bow was her name "Beauty".

"She's my choice too," declared the Captain. "I wish we owned her. I ain't never seen a prettier model."

CHAPTER III.
PREPARATIONS.

As soon as they got back into town, Mr. Driver hunted up the man of whom he had spoken, and, introducing him to each of the little party, hurried back to his store.

Mr. Williams was a young man still in his twenties. He was a stocky, well-built young fellow with an intelligent face, determined manner, and a short, crisp way of speaking. He sized up the little party with one quick appraising glance as Captain Westfield stated their errand.

"If you are not willing to stand hardships, dirt, discomfort, and danger, you want nothing to do with sponging," he declared.

"We can stand anything that it pays us to stand," Charley replied, quickly.

"Well, that's the right kind of spirit," approved the young man, "but, of course you don't any of you realize what you will have to meet. I've seen others start in with the same confidence and get cold feet before the first trip was over. It isn't any nice, ladies' pink-tea business. It's a game for real men, but if the men are the right kind, they get their reward for what they endure, all right, all right. I landed here with an empty pocket and emptier stomach, and now,—well, I am not a John D. Rockefeller yet, but I've got enough laid by to keep the wolf from the door for a good many years. Better