THE MYSTERY
OF THE SEA-LARK

[“The moment I jump swing her ’round”]

THE MYSTERY
OF THE SEA-LARK

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AND

H. P. HOLT

ILLUSTRATED BY
C. M. RELYEA

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1920

Copyright, 1920, by
The Century Co.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE MYSTERY OF THE SEA-LARK

THE MYSTERY OF THE SEA-LARK

CHAPTER I
CAP’N CRUMBIE IS SURPRISED

“A lucky thing so few of the boats were out when the storm came up!” said Jack Holden. “I guess they’d have had a pretty hard time of it yesterday.”

“Cap’n” Crumbie nodded in satisfaction. “Only one missing,” he replied. “And why? Why? ’Cause Cap’n Crumbie told ’em what to expect. Not far out, I ain’t, as a rule. There was nigh a dozen o’ ’em wanting to get away to the grounds when I told ’em the gale was coming. And most o’ ’em took my advice and stayed safe an’ snug at home. ’Tain’t that I’m wanting to blow my own trumpet, as the saying is, but facts is facts. Bob Sennet laughed at me and put to sea. Laughed at me, mind you! Obstinate as they make ’em, Bob is—or should say was—just like his father afore him. If he hadn’t been so obstinate he’d ha’ been here to-day, alive an’ well. An’ instead o’ that, see where he is!”

“Where, Cap’n?” asked the boy, gravely.

The Cap’n dropped his voice to a sepulchral rumble. “Fathoms deep, son! Fathoms deep somewheres out there, he and the Ellen E. Hanks together; aye, and all hands as well. Fathoms deep; mark my words!”

Jack, suppressing a disrespectful grin, glanced seaward in the direction of the Cap’n’s pointing hand. The scene there held no suggestion of tragedy. The storm of the last two days was over. Since early morning the leaden skies had turned to blue and the fresh, salty breeze that swept in from the broad Atlantic was but the tag-end of the terrific gale that had lashed the waters of the harbor and raced, shrieking, up the quaint, narrow streets of the town. Now, instead of the storm-wrack, a few white clouds sailed eastward, and, in place of the fury of tormented waters, the harbor and the sea beyond the breakwater reflected the blue of the heavens in their dancing, white-capped waves.

A mile away, Gull Island was fringed with creamy foam, and, farther still, at the tip-end of the Point, the squat stone lighthouse gleamed snowy-white against the clear horizon. Washed and swept by rain and wind, the little Massachusetts fishing-town of Greenport looked bright and clean this May afternoon. The fishing-schooners, some at anchor, some lying snug at the wharves, were drying their sails in the warm sunlight.

Cap’n Crumbie viewed them approvingly as, with Jack at his side, he paced to and fro on Garnett and Sayer’s wharf, his short, slightly bowed legs working with the regularity of a pendulum, six paces nor’east, then six paces so’west. He had traveled a good many miles in that fashion in the last twenty years, for he was watchman at Garnett and Sayer’s, and this stretch of clear space on the busy wharf was the Cap’n’s quarter-deck. He was, let it be confessed, no ancient deep-sea mariner, although he had all the marks of the ocean-going skipper—leathery, crinkled face, with crow’s-feet at the corners of his twinkling eyes, skin tanned deeply from long exposure to the salt sea air, a fringe of yellowish-white whiskers, and a deep growl of a voice. True it is that he had been a captain, but captain only of a center-board sail-boat in which, before he had given up the precarious life, he had taken out pleasure parties for a day’s fishing—including chowder—or for a run around the Head. But everybody didn’t know that, more especially the “summer folks,” and among the latter he held the reputation for being not only the most dependable weather-prophet along the coast but a perfect example of the old-time ship’s captain, with experience gathered from Iceland to Fiji, from Seattle to Siam. And many a good yarn Cap’n Crumbie could spin, too, of his adventures in far-off climes. Indeed, he had related some of them so frequently that he had long since grown to believe them!

Jack had spent all of his sixteen years in Greenport and so knew the Cap’n for what he was, a kind-hearted, eccentric, and amusing old character.

“But,” he said, suppressing a smile, “if Bob does come back he’s pretty sure to have a tremendous catch. The mackerel are in and the water’s boiling with them, they say.”

“Maybe, maybe,” blustered the Cap’n; “but what good’s a load o’ mackerel to a drowned man? Terrible bad weather it was yesterday. Don’t know when I’ve seen such a snorter. Guess the last one was three years ago, the time your father was robbed.”

“I remember,” replied Jack. “There was a fierce gale that night, wasn’t there? Poor Dad was wet through when they brought him home. He’s never talked much about the robbery, Cap’n, and I never really understood just what happened that night. But I do know that poor Dad’s never been quite the same since.”

“And no wonder,” answered the Cap’n. “He was hard hit, Jack. More’n a thousand dollars went, as near as I recall.”

“Twelve hundred and forty. I asked him once and he told me, but he said I wasn’t to talk about it again.”

“Well, by gravy, ’twas a shame, anyway!” said the Cap’n, emphatically, with a belligerent glance at Barker’s wharf across the slip.

“Wasn’t it queer that they never caught any one!” Jack observed.

“That’s what Simon Barker always said,” replied the Cap’n, dryly, “but when he says that, he’s trying to suggest that Samuel Holden knows more about the affair than he cares to tell.”

Jack flushed slightly, and threw his shoulders back.

“I had forgotten that,” he said quietly. “I remember, though, that it was you who found Dad. You didn’t see anybody about, of course?”

Cap’n Crumbie shook his head.

“And I don’t know as they mightn’t have suspected me, if it hadn’t so happened that the new Baptist parson was with me, and they had to take his word.”

“Well, what’s your theory of it, Cap’n?” Jack asked.

Cap’n Crumbie paused in his sentry-go to stuff shreds of tobacco into the much blackened bowl of his old brier pipe and then, with deftness born of practice extending over many years on the exposed wharf, struck a match, cupped it in both hands under the lee of a broad shoulder turned away from the breeze, and puffed contentedly for a moment.

“Well, if I don’t know what happened that night, there ain’t no one as does,” he said at length, with a slightly judicial air. He had told the story a good many times, not because there was anything specially stirring about it, but because he was directly concerned and because it happened to be the nearest approach to an adventure ever happening to him in all his three score years—if one excepted the time when he fell overboard from his sail-boat and, after a few thrilling seconds, was ignominiously pulled back to safety by one of his passengers, who passed a boat-hook through his trousers. “Your father and Simon Barker were partners, as you know, as fish-merchants. ’Twas a pity Samuel Holden ever joined up with a feller like Barker, because nobody ever did any good harnessed to a mean cuss like that. They started in a small way, with one schooner, the Grace and Ella. There she is, now, lying up against Barker’s wharf. And many a thousand-dollars’ worth of fish has been landed from over her side since then. At the time I’m speaking of, she’d come in with a big haul, that fetched high prices. A day or two after that the gale sprang up. And it was a storm. Never since I was in the Indian Ocean—umph—er—er—”

Cap’n Crumbie coughed discreetly, remembering that his audience was “home folks,” and then resumed quite without embarrassment:

“Well, as I was saying, it was a gale that fair knocked Greenport galley-endwise. It started all of a sudden, raining cats and dogs, and the wind was so strong you couldn’t stand up. We lost two of our best fishing-vessels that day; windows were blown in and roofs ripped off; and a bunch o’ little sail-boats lying at their moorings were blown clean out to sea. Some of ’em never were found again. One or two got smashed up on the rocks. One of ’em went ’way up ’round Indian Head, drifted up the tide way o’ the Sangus River, and lodged on the sand-dunes there. Then the sea piled the sand up, changed the course o’ the river, and she’s been left high and dry ever since.”

“You mean the old Sea-Lark?” put in Jack.

The watchman nodded.

“I know where she is,” observed the boy. “I’ve climbed aboard her several times. She’s lying a couple of hundred yards from the river now.”

“Well,” Cap’n Crumbie went on, “that night, just when the gale was starting, your father left the office with the money he’d drawn from the bank to pay off the crew of the Grace and Ella. It was in a canvas bag, notes and silver together, and he didn’t like leaving it at the office all night. I was coming down High Street, when I met the parson, and we walked along together a ways. It was hard going and all-fired dark, when we turned down Wharf Street and fell right over your father. He was lying all in a heap on the sidewalk. I didn’t know it was him at first, mind you, because it was so dark. Parson and me tried to get him onto his feet, but he was all limp, like a wet string, and so we carried him into Simmons’s house, and there we saw who it was. When he recovered a bit he told us he’d been robbed. He had no idea who’d done it. All he knew was that he was hurrying along, with his head bent down, when some one laid hold of him. Then he got a smashing blow on the head, and didn’t know anything more until he came to in Simmons’s kitchen.”

“And the police never found any clue?” Jack asked.

“Not as I ever heard of. But Simon Barker went nearly crazy. You’d have thought, by the way he fussed, that Sam Holden was the biggest criminal unhung. Barker lost his head. He’s that mean he hates to see a mosquito walking on his wall-paper ’cause it’s wearing out the paper. You’d have thought it was him that had been half killed instead of Sam Holden. He swore ’twas a put-up job, and that your father had done it himself somehow, to get away with the money. And mighty unpopular he made himself by saying such things. Some of us told him what we thought o’ him, next day, and then he began to calm down a bit, but by that time the thief had covered up his tracks, and nobody has ever heard any explanation o’ what happened, from that day to this. It cost your father his partnership in the business, ’cause he had too much pride to go on working with a man who had as good as called him a thief, and he sold his home to replace the money that was stolen. I did hear that Simon Barker came near dropping dead when your dad handed it to him. You see, if things had been t’other way round, Barker couldn’t have brought himself to do such a thing in a month o’ Sundays, and so he couldn’t understand any one else doing it. Your father wasn’t obliged to pay the money to Barker, o’ course. If a thing gets stole, it’s stole, and that’s all there is to it. But your father wanted to clear his name. And he did, don’t you ever doubt it, Jack! Maybe Barker still has a sneaking notion that it was a put-up job, but if he does I can’t see how he figures your father made anything by it!”

“How can he?” protested Jack.

Cap’n Crumbie shook his head, and cast a glance in the direction of the tug Simon P. Barker, which was being coaled noisily at its owner’s wharf thirty yards away.

“I ain’t no Shylock Holmes, son,” he said. “Maybe he thinks what he says, and maybe he says what he don’t think. I shouldn’t faint right now if some one told me here and now that Barker knew more than your father did about the robbery.”

“You don’t mean—”

“No, Jack, no. I ain’t saying Barker had anything to do with it, because, to give him his due, he wasn’t never convicted o’ theft. I b’lieve he’s honest, and if he is, it’s only because he’s too mean to give his time to the Government, in prison.”

The conversation was interrupted by the approach of a stranger, who, after looking across the harbor, addressed the watchman.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but will you tell me where I can find the ferry to East Greenport?”

“There ain’t no ferry, and there ain’t never been one,” replied the watchman, “though ’tain’t for the want o’ customers. Sometimes in the summer I’ve been asked that same question a dozen times a day.”

“How can I get over there?” the stranger asked, looking dubiously at the intervening mile of water. “There is no trolley and it is rather a long way to walk with this grip.”

“A little ways round that corner,” replied the watchman, pointing off the wharf, “you’ll find Hinkley’s stable, and you’ll get a carriage there.”

Cap’n Crumbie watched the man speculatively until he had disappeared, but Jack was looking out at the stretch of water between the wharf and the distant hotel, with a puzzled expression.

“I say, Cap’n,” he said a few moments later, “did you mean it when you said lots of people want to be ferried across to the Point during the summer?”

“Why, yes, son,” replied the watchman. “You never heard me say anything that wasn’t the truth, did you?”

Jack smiled and almost made some reference to the Indian Ocean; but other thoughts were buzzing at the back of his brain.

“Why hasn’t anybody ever started a ferry, then, if there’s need of one?” he asked.

Cap’n Crumbie put his head on one side and looked down at the ocean.

“Ever swallow sea-water, Jack?” he asked.

“When I was swimming, many a time.”

“What does it taste of?”

“Salt, of course.”

“Salt is right. But there’s all manner o’ things in it besides salt—even gold, I’ve heard say. It’s there, for the taking, and no danger o’ the ocean running dry. Well, did you ever hear o’ any one in Greenport starting to take salt or gold out o’ the sea. No. O’ course you didn’t. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. But I reckon it’s about the same reason why nobody ever started to run a ferry across to the Point from here. Either they didn’t think of it, or it’s too much trouble.”

“When the summer cottagers come back and the hotel opens, I guess there would be plenty of business,” Jack mused. “You’d think the hotel alone would make it pay.”

“Probably ’twould,” the Cap’n agreed.

“I’m sure of it,” said Jack, thoughtfully; and then, as his eyes fell on something away out to sea, beyond the breakwater, he suppressed an exclamation and glanced amusedly at Cap’n Crumbie, who was engaged in a contest with his obstinate pipe.

“Too bad about Bob Sennet!” the boy said. “You think the Ellen E. Hanks must have foundered with all hands, don’t you?”

“Aye, with all hands,” declared Cap’n Crumbie, wagging his head. “Fathoms deep, they must be now, floating around among the fish they went after. I’m not denying they’d ha’ made a big haul o’ mackerel, and they’d ha’ had the market all to themselves. But there, obstinate folks have to pay for their obstinacy sooner or later! I warned Bob, but ’twas no use.”

“There’s a boat coming in now,” said the boy, pointing to the craft, which, with all sail set, was rounding the end of the breakwater, her hatches evidently full, for her hull was low. “If she isn’t the Ellen E. Hanks she’s awfully like her.”

Cap’n Crumbie shot a glance over the harbor, and a look of mingled surprise and chagrin crossed his rugged face.

“Humph!” he said finally. “Some folks are like Jeff Trefry’s old tom-cat for luck. Jeff tied the cat up in a sack and dropped him off the wharf and afore he’d more than turned around that cat comes marchin’ into the kitchen with a flounder in his mouth!”

CHAPTER II
GEORGE SIGNS ON

A few minutes later Jack left the watchman, and made his way through town toward the cottage in which he lived. And as he went, his mind busied itself with the idea of the ferry suggested by Cap’n Crumbie.

Jack Holden was as care-free as any boy of his age in Greenport. For him, life so far had contained little but healthy sport and amusement, and the question of earning money had never concerned him. Nor was it the wish of his father that it should. Yet, despite his natural light-heartedness, Jack had a level head. The time would come, and before very long, when he must face the problem of winning a place for himself in the world. It had been decided that, if it could be arranged, he was to spend another two years at High School, after which he would seek a position. But two years is a long time, and Jack was by no means certain that he would not have to turn out and become a wage-earner long before his education was completed. For his father was now a very different man from the old Samuel Holden. Since the robbery, troubles had piled themselves on his shoulders somewhat seriously. First had come the loss of Jack’s mother, from which Mr. Holden had never really recovered. Then had followed that blow on the head inflicted by the thief, which had necessitated numerous visits to a costly eye specialist, in order to preserve his sight. Finally, with his business taken away from under his feet, he had been in financial straits ever since. After selling his home to make good the missing money, he had taken a small cottage on the outskirts of Greenport and gone to work as a bookkeeper for Garnett and Sayer, the fish-packers. Had his wife lived, with her indomitable spirit and unending courage—characteristics which, fortunately, she had bestowed upon her son—she would have buoyed him up and kept alive his old ambition. But now his worries told on him, and it was that fact which caused Jack to wonder sometimes whether his own education would ever be completed as he would like it to be.

If, he reflected, as he walked home, he could only start that ferry and so bring a little grist to the mill, it would at least help to relieve his father of some of his anxiety. But one cannot make bricks without straw. And he was face to face with the cold fact that he had no boat, nor any chance of acquiring one. At home, he looked over his sum total of worldly possessions. There was four dollars and twenty cents in the savings-bank. He had a nickel and two dimes in his pocket. Also, he owned a silver watch, of little value, as most of its works were missing. There was a penknife, which he had bought after much careful deliberation, and there was—well, little else save rubbish, worth nothing when it came to a question of raising enough money to buy a boat suitable for Holden’s Ferry.

“Holden’s Ferry!” Jack repeated aloud, smiling a little at the sound. The name had an agreeable ring to it. It would be fun. And at the same time it might be fairly profitable fun.

In the evening, when his father returned, Jack immediately introduced the subject uppermost in his thoughts.

“Dad,” he began impulsively, “how can I get a boat, twenty feet long, or something like that—one that will hold ten or a dozen people and won’t leak more than about ten buckets of water an hour.”

“Eh? What’s that?” asked Mr. Holden, in surprise.

“I’ve got an idea, and I want a boat, Dad,” replied Jack. “I thought—perhaps—somehow—”

“I wish I could buy you one, my lad,” said Mr. Holden, a trifle dejectedly, “but you’ll have to wait till my ship comes in.”

“I don’t want it for pleasure—not altogether, that is,” the boy declared.

“Not for pleasure? Then what on earth— Are you thinking of setting up in the shipping business?”

Jack chuckled.

“I may do a little freight-carrying,” he said with mock seriousness, “but the passenger trade is what I was thinking of chiefly.”

“Modest youth! You’ll want to go into steam for that, though,” said Mr. Holden, jokingly. “It is a pretty tall proposition for a youngster of your age. Have you fixed on just what ports you are going to trade at?”

“Only Greenport, Dad. But I’m in earnest.”

Still slightly amused, Mr. Holden stroked his chin and eyed his son inquiringly.

“Well, what is this wonderful scheme of yours?” he asked.

“I want to run a ferry between Garnett and Sayer’s wharf and the hotel landing on the Point,” the boy replied. “There is no way of getting across except by hiring a boat or walking around, or taking a carriage; and plenty of people would pay a dime to be run across there in a ferry-boat.”

“Yes, but—”

“Wait a minute, Dad. I’ve had this in my mind all the afternoon. Cap’n Crumbie tells me there are lots of people who inquire for the ferry in the summer. He says there never has been one, but that is no reason why there shouldn’t be one now. Perhaps I wouldn’t make lots of money at it, but I’m old enough to help you a bit, and I don’t want to loaf all through vacation, because I know you’ve had worry enough and that you’re going to have a tough time keeping me in school until I finish.”

“Well?” observed Samuel Holden, rather vaguely.

“I was wondering,” continued the boy, “whether you could manage somehow to buy me the sort of boat I’d need. Almost anything would do that was half-way decent—and clean, too, because summer folk wouldn’t want to get into her if she wasn’t.”

Mr. Holden shook his head slowly. “I dare say it might work out all right, Jack,” he said, “and a little more money would come in very handy, but you’d better get the notion out of your head, son, before you waste any more time thinking about it. I couldn’t afford to buy you even a dory, and it’s about six times too far across the water at that point to row, anyway.”

“All right, Dad,” said Jack, quietly. He realized that there was no use in asking his father to perform impossibilities. Later in the evening Mr. Holden noted an expression of quiet determination in the lad’s face such as he had so often seen in Mrs. Holden’s when, things not going well, her resourceful brain and stout heart had set themselves the task of getting affairs back in order.

The next day was Saturday, and shortly after breakfast, there being no school, Jack and his chum, George Santo, started off on a hike toward the sand-dunes and salt-flats which lay for miles to the north of Greenport. This region the boys had made their playground ever since they were old enough to go about together. It was on the bold summit of Indian Head, a rocky barrier which for centuries had kept the encroaching sea at bay, that they had built their first wigwam out of driftwood, and stood, at the mature ages of nine and ten respectively, adorned with feathers and armed with spears, guarding their hunting-grounds from the hated palefaces who never seemed to approach much nearer than Greenport. From there they let their eyes wander in imagination over vast herds of buffalo, moose and antelope grazing peacefully on a far-stretching prairie. At times, as the hated palefaces all seemed to be fully occupied elsewhere, phantom palefaces had to blunder upon their hunting-grounds, and these intruders were hastily despatched or led captive to the driftwood wigwam, there to be held as hostages. There were terrific battles up on Indian Head, but somehow or other, whatever the overwhelming odds with which they were faced, the two lone braves invariably came out from the encounters unscathed. But the wigwam was now scattered to the four winds of heaven. The boys had grown too old for that sort of make-believe; yet their love for the region of dunes and marsh endured.

On this particular morning they headed over toward the salt-flats above Cow Creek, and then followed the course of the Sangus River toward the sea. They must have trudged half a dozen miles by this circuitous route before Jack, standing on the rippled summit of a wind-swept dune, drew his companion’s attention to the fact that the Sangus had changed its sandy course.

“It must have been caused by the flood and the last gale,” he said. “See, the water has come right across this low bit and—and—say, George, the old sloop, the Sea-Lark, was lying nearly buried just along here. I shouldn’t wonder if the river has swept her away now. Come on, let’s see how the old dear is.”

Ten minutes’ tramping brought them to the place, and each gave a cry of joy when they saw that the sloop lay exactly as she had lain for three years. But she had escaped the effects of the recent gale by a narrow margin only, for the Sangus had swirled over its banks, eating its way through the sand to a new course, until it now flowed within twenty feet of the Sea-Lark.

The boys climbed aboard the derelict, and with their legs dangling over the side, with healthy appetites attacked a parcel of sandwiches.

“I’m glad she’s still here,” said Jack. “Do you remember when I was a pirate king last summer and made you walk the plank? We’ve had lots of fun on this sloop. If she’d been lying a mile or so nearer Greenport, crowds of kids would have been swarming all over her and she’d have been broken up.”

George nodded, and poked the last of the sandwiches into his mouth.

“Talking of boats,” Jack went on, “where do you suppose I could get one, George?”

“What do you want her for? There’s my dory. You can have that any time you want.”

“Thanks, George,” Jack replied. “But a dory isn’t just what I do want.”

Then he explained.

“I don’t know. I guess a boat like that, one you could use for a ferry, would cost money,” declared the other, when Jack had finished.

“I thought maybe, your father being a boat-builder, you might know of some way I could manage it,” said Jack. “There’s plenty of time, because it’s early in the season yet, and maybe I’ll find what I want somewhere.”

“If you do start the ferry I want to help. May I?” asked George.

“Why not?”

“You’ll be skipper and I’ll be mate,” said George, laughing.

“You mustn’t laugh at the captain—that is, not after you’re properly appointed mate—” said Jack, “or I’ll order you put in irons. That’s what they always do. Yes, laugh now, if you like, but wait till I’m your captain. But why wait? See here, George Santo, weren’t you making an application to me for a job just now?”

“Yes, sir,” replied George, meekly touching his cap.

“How old are you?” This, brusquely, as befitting a fearsome master mariner.

“Fifteen, sir.”

“Umph! Pretty young for my class of trade. What’s your rating?”

“Chief mate, sir.”

“Got your certificate?”

“I left it at home, sir.”

“Umph! Very careless of you. Well, you want to sail with me, eh? What about the compass? Can you box it?”

“I’m a pretty fair boxer, sir.”

“Not that sort of boxing, chump! All right, you’re engaged. Now, Mr. Mate, laugh at me if you dare!”

Whereupon the mate promptly laughed, and Jack as promptly hurled him overboard into the raging billows of sand. Jack then strolled aft and stood for a few moments, measuring the distance between the embedded sloop and the river.

The mate, clambering aboard again, shouted something which fell on deaf ears. Again George spoke, and again Jack made no answer. At last, however, he emerged from his abstraction, and, “Come here,” he called.

George obeyed, and Jack passed his arm through that of his friend.

“Now, use your brain,” he said. “How far is it from here to the stream?”

“Thirty feet,” the other guessed. “Why?”

“Wrong. It’s nearer twenty. And don’t ever ask the captain ‘why’ anything. He’s in supreme command; see? Tell me what is to prevent us digging the Sea-Lark out of this and getting her afloat.”

“Afloat!” gasped the mate. “Why, you can’t do it! She’s stuck here.”

“Why can’t I do it?”

“Well,” began the mate, dubiously.

“You’ll be disrated if you don’t use more intelligence,” snapped the skipper. “What are shovels for but to dig with?”

“Yes, but—” began George.

“But what?”

“Well, if you got her afloat she’d only sink. Her timbers will all be rotten.”

“Show me a rotten timber!” said Jack. “I don’t mean these planks that have got broken on deck. I mean in the hull. She’s as sound as a bell. A boat like this would take years and years to rot. She’d need some calking, I guess, but that’s what I engaged you for, isn’t it?—while I sit in my deck chair and give orders. George, honestly, I believe it could be done.”

“But she isn’t yours to float,” parried the mate, “nor to use after you get her afloat.”

“That’s true,” agreed the skipper, frowning. “But you have got a way of raising difficulties since I signed you on. Who does she belong to?”

“She used to belong to Mr. Farnham,” replied George. “He’s a New York man with pots of money, who lives over on the Point in the summer. The sloop was in my father’s boat-yard for repairs the summer before she broke away and got stranded here.”

“Well, do you suppose he wants her? I don’t believe so.”

“Don’t know,” observed George, doubtfully.

“Well, if he does want her, why doesn’t he come and get her? And what could he use her for? A coal cellar, or what? She’s abandoned, I tell you.”

“If you took her away from here, which you couldn’t do, anyway,” observed the younger boy, “you’d be committing ship theft.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a dreadful offense, worse than piracy. I believe they hang you for it, or something.”

“I certainly don’t want you to get hanged,” said the captain. “Good mates are scarce; and they always hang the mate, because he’s engaged to make himself useful in little ways like that. But it wouldn’t be ship theft if I wrote a letter to this Mr. Farnham and got his permission, would it?”

“I suppose not.”

“Of course not. Where does he live?”

“My dad will have his address.”

“Well, don’t forget to ask him for it, and I’ll write. He can only refuse.”

George, beginning to awake to the possibilities of the plan, cast a more critical eye over the stranded sloop.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right,” he said at length. “We might get her into the water.”

“It wouldn’t be exactly easy, because she’s pretty big,” Jack admitted, “but it would be worth trying, anyway. What a prize if we got her, though! She’s thirty foot over all, if she’s an inch. And ten—no, twelve-foot beam. The only thing is, if she did float, we couldn’t row her very well.”

“There’s bales of junk gear up at our yard,” put in George. “I suppose her mast got broken off in the gale when she stranded. I think I could get that fixed all right, though. There’s an old spar that came out of her when she was refitted. I don’t know why it was taken out, but it looks all right. We can find an old mainsail and jib somewhere. Even if they need a bit of patching, they’ll do.”

“The boat is the chief thing,” Jack mused. “The rest will be easy, once we get her. I’m going to send that letter off to-day. Let’s go home now and do it.”

Letter-writing was not an occupation which, ordinarily, filled Jack with joy. But this was not an ordinary occasion. After a first attempt which he regarded as a failure, the boy produced a missive that was both frank and polite, and then, feeling that he did not stand a ghost of a chance of having his request granted, posted it. Later, he and George walked to the boat-yard, there to consult George’s father, Tony Santo, on the question of moving the Sea-Lark from her sandy bed. Tony promised to go down the river and look the sloop over, the following day, and was as good as his word. Jack and George accompanied him in his sailing-dory, and to the delight of the boys the boat-builder declared that there ought not to be a great deal of difficulty in getting the sloop off, though he cautiously declined either to have anything to do with such operations or allow his son to, unless definite permission was received from Mr. Farnham. He pointed out, however, that the accumulation of sand in the sloop’s cabin would have to be removed before any attempt could be made at shifting her. Her companionway door had evidently been open when she grounded, with the result that in the three years which had since elapsed the space below deck, a roomy cabin twelve feet by nine, had been half filled with the fine white sand.

During the next three days the boys, taking a shovel with them, employed themselves busily at this task until the last of the undesired ballast was removed. Jack now began to keep an anxious lookout for the postman. Four days elapsed, and still no reply arrived. Thursday came, and on returning from school he found an envelope bearing his name, on the mantel-shelf. His fingers unsteady with excitement, he tore it open and read:

Dear Sir:

I thought my old sloop must have been broken up by now. Yes, she is still my property, and if you want her you are welcome to her, on one condition. If you get her afloat, you must take me for a sail in her some day.

Yours sincerely,

CHARLES FARNHAM.

CHAPTER III
BACK TO THE WATER

Stuffing the letter into a pocket, Jack reached for his cap, and hurried out to summon his crew, consisting of George Santo.

“All hands on deck!” he said. “Mr. Mate, we’re going to start work right away. There are only three weeks of May left, and before long we’ll have Holden’s Ferry going.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the mate, “if ever we do get her floated.”

“If!” cried Jack. “You talk like a codfish. Of course we’re going to get her floated! Before we do another thing, though, I’m going to hold a war council with your dad. He knows best how we can tackle the job.”

They hurried to the boat-builder’s yard, where Tony was found at work.

“Mr. Farnham has given me that sloop,” Jack cried as he approached. “See, here’s his letter.”

Tony’s features developed a broad smile, and he glanced through the note.

“So you’ll soon be setting off on a journey around the world, or thereabouts, eh?” he remarked at last, banteringly.

“Well, maybe about half-way, or perhaps as far as Greenport breakwater,” Jack returned; “but you know, Mr. Santo, we can’t do much till we get your help.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” asked Tony good-humoredly, putting down his hammer.

“I don’t want to bother you too much,” said Jack, “but you said that if we got stuck you would give us a bit of help.”

“Why, yes, I’ll run over there in the dory some Saturday and help you to launch her, when you’re ready.”

“Thank you. That will be a tremendous help. Shall we dig a channel down to the water and float her out that way, or dig the sand away from her bow—she is lying bow-on toward the river, you know—and get her out with a winch?”

“I’ll take a winch. That will be easier. I’ll find a place on the opposite bank of the river where I can moor the winch, and then run a cable across the water to the sloop. We’ll drag her out when you’ve done enough spade-work. But mind, you want to get all that sand clear away from her sides, and make a nice slope up from her bow so that she won’t stick when the winch begins to haul on her. How long will that take you? Till next fall?”

“I hope not. We couldn’t very well manage it by next Saturday. That would only give us two days. But we’ll be ready for the winch the Saturday after.”

“All right,” replied Tony. “We’ll make that a date.”

To any one less enthusiastic than her proud new owner, the sloop would not, perhaps, have looked such a priceless possession. There is something peculiarly desolate about the appearance of a wreck at any time, and, at least up to the time when the Sangus had again changed its course, the Sea-Lark had looked even more desolate than she would otherwise have done, because she was so far from the river. The water had left her canting over heavily to port, her stump of mast, a yard long, sticking up. On the port side her deck was now about level with the sand; her starboard side, raised four or five feet higher, had formed a barrier against which a solid bank of the restless sand had settled. Had she been an old boat and needing paint at the time she came to grief, decay might have left its stamp upon her in the three years she had lain there; but it so happened that her oaken beams and hard-pine planking were as sound at the time of the accident as on the day when they were first put into her, while the fact that she had received a double coat of paint only two months before, helped her further to resist the weather. She was not, therefore, really a wreck, as nothing of any consequence, except the mast, was broken.

Taking turn and turn about, the two boys worked strenuously, first removing the sand that had silted up against her starboard side. It was no light task, for the drift ran the whole length of the sloop, and the lads’ backs were aching and their limbs weary before they seemed to have made any impression on it. When the skipper called a final halt, however, they were well pleased with the result of their arduous labors. Nevertheless, Jack realized now for the first time how great was the task he had set himself, and how hopeless would be his efforts without the kindly assistance of Tony with the winch.

In three days the boys had entirely removed the drift, and then began to dig down around the sides of the vessel, to release her from the grip of the sand there. George proved not only a willing but an extremely useful helper. Though not so tall as his chum, he was strong, and gave promise of developing into an unusually powerful man. But it was the spirit with which he threw himself into the task that Jack appreciated as much as anything. Just before the date of the appointment with Tony, once when they were resting, perched on the side of the Sea-Lark, George surveyed the piles of sand which they had removed in the past week.

“We only want one thing now,” he said thoughtfully, “to make us both thoroughly happy.”

“What’s that?”

“A peach of a wind-storm, to fill up all the holes we’ve been digging! If that happened, I don’t believe we’d have the pluck to start all over again.”

“Don’t suggest such an awful thing,” cried Jack, “or I’ll smite you with a belaying-pin! By the way, George, I can’t do that.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” said the other. “Why not?”

“Because there doesn’t seem to be a belaying-pin on board. We’ll need one or two, won’t we? The skipper always thumps people on the head with a belaying-pin, particularly the mate. There’s something about a marlinespike, too, isn’t there? I’m not quite sure what a marlinespike is, but I think I club you with it when there isn’t a belaying-pin handy.”

With a deft movement of his body, the mate got behind the skipper and neatly tipped him overboard into the hole they had so painstakingly dug; nor was the captain allowed to climb on board again until the mate had extracted a promise that he would at all times be treated in a humane manner when they were far out on the bounding ocean.

During the last of the preparations for Tony’s operations their spirits rose greatly, for it began to look as though the sloop merely needed a gentle tug to slide her away from the bed in which she had so long lain. At school on Friday Jack struggled hard to keep his attention riveted on his lessons, but it was an effort in which he failed utterly; for the launching on the morrow of the good ship Sea-Lark seemed a matter of infinitely greater importance than the problems that were put before him.

It was late that afternoon when the boy finally declared that all was ready for the great ceremony. He and his chum had carried out Tony’s instructions to the letter, even searching about on the bank of the river for driftwood, which they dragged to the sloop and placed in position just under her nose. That night Tony was informed of their readiness for his part in the program, and the boat-builder bade them be prepared for an early start next day, as it might take until late in the afternoon to get through.

Not very long after sunrise next day Jack leaped from bed and looked anxiously out at the window. It seemed as though the Fates were going to be kind to him, because the weather was perfect for the day’s operations. The boy was too impatient to eat much breakfast, and after a hurried meal went round to the Santo boat-yard, where he found Tony and George already moving the necessary gear into the sailing-dory—much strong manila rope with blocks and tackle, a powerful hand-winch, several heavy planks, a number of rollers, and a bucket of grease. When these were aboard, the sail was hoisted, and the dory dropped down the creek to the river. There, as the stream was not over wide, the oars had to be used, and the dory was rowed some four miles, Tony pulling steadily all the time, and the boys taking turn and turn about at the other oar.

“It’s hard work against the wind,” said Tony, “but we shall feel the benefit of it coming back.”

It was only a little after nine o’clock when they reached the spot where the Sea-Lark lay, and some hours were left before high water was due. First Tony went ashore and inspected the work the boys had already done.

“That’s good,” he declared unhesitatingly. “She ought to come off like a wet fish slides off a plate. Lend a hand with those rollers and boards in the dory, and we’ll fix her.”

Already Tony seemed to take as keen an interest in the salvage operations as the boys had done. He soon had everything ready on that bank of the Sangus, and then crossed the river to moor the winch in the sand there, so that it would haul without moving. This was not easily accomplished, for the loose sand gave poor anchorage. When, however, it was done to his satisfaction, the cable was run across the water and made fast to the sloop. Tony sent the boys back to start hauling, while he stood by the Sea-Lark to “navigate” her. Jack and his chum each seized a crank and began to tighten the cable. It came easily enough until the drag of the sloop began. Then they managed a bare-half-turn only. Putting forth every ounce of their strength, they struggled to start the sloop on her journey toward the water, but it was beyond them. The Sea-Lark refused to glide with fairy footsteps down to the river after her long rest ashore. Tony meanwhile was heaving at the side of the boat to loosen her keel in the sand, but when he saw the joint efforts of the boys were unequal to the task, he beckoned them to fetch the dory across.

“She seems to be glued there,” he declared, “but that glue will have to come unstuck, if it takes us the whole day to do the trick. Let’s see if all three of us working at the winch can get her to start.”

Tony rolled up his sleeves, put the boys together at one crank, and applied his own strength to the other.

“Now, lads,” he said, “give her all you’ve got. Heave!”

There was a back-breaking moment of straining, cracking muscles.

And then something happened. The Sea-Lark reluctantly began to move.

Click-click-clickety-click, went the winch.

“Easy, now,” ordered Tony. “Rest a few minutes. She’ll come all right, and we have plenty of time.”

From that moment the launching of the sloop, though slow, was a certainty. A dozen times Tony had to make the trip across the river to adjust the planks and rollers beneath the boat’s keel, but she came up the slope without mishap.

“My word, she looks big!” Jack exclaimed when he had climbed to the top and was lumbering along on her side, down to the water’s edge.

“What did you take her for?—a canoe?” Tony laughed. “She won’t look as big, though, when she gets into the water. Still, a thirty-foot sloop is all you two will want to handle in a breeze.”

When their prize was within a foot of the water, Tony went over her with a calking-iron and mallet, plugging up the worst of the leaky places with oakum so that she could safely be taken up the river as far as the boat-yard without danger of sinking on the way. Jack watched this performance with a critical eye.

“Is she very bad?” he asked with some anxiety.

“Why, no,” replied Tony. “She’s not what you might call seaworthy, with these seams wide open, but you’re bound to get that. I didn’t expect to have much trouble with her hull, and I must say that, considering all things, she’s in pretty fair condition. Just the same, I guess there’s enough work on her to keep you busy for a week or so.”

“I don’t care if it takes us all summer! Yes, I do, too,” said Jack. “I want to get her shipshape in a month or so if possible.”

“Well, I’m not saying you can’t do that,” replied Tony, surveying the hull with a professional gaze. “But let me tell you this: you’ve got your work cut out; that is, if you mean to put her into first-class shape. Still, even as she is she’d fetch a nice little sum, once we get her down to the yard where people come looking for boats.”

“It’s very nice to hear you say that, Mr. Santo,” replied Jack, “but I feel as proud of her already as though she were a steam-yacht, and it would have to be a very tempting offer to make me part with her.”

“There!” said Tony at last. “I think she’ll do now. Some water is bound to slop into her on the way home, but she won’t go back on us and sink, anyway. Let’s get her launched.”

A few more turns on the winch fetched the Sea-Lark down into the river, and Jack could not suppress a shout when he saw her actually afloat. She did not look quite so large as when lying high and dry on the top of the bank, but she was a fair-sized craft.

A tow-rope was fastened from her to the dory, and then the smaller boat’s sail was hoisted, Tony going alone in his dory, the boys traveling on the sloop to steer. This was a somewhat delicate operation, for the channel was narrow in places, and there were several bends. During this part of the run the mate stood in the bow, armed with a long pole, to ease her prow away from the occasional shallows into which they ran, and Jack remained at the wheel, glowing with pride in his new possession. For, helpless though she was without spars, rigging, or gear, she was his, and it was not difficult for him to adorn her with imaginary sails bellying to the wind as she careened over, leaving a foamy trail astern. It seemed almost unbelievable to him that such a thing as this could have happened. Never, during the time when he and his friend had played at being pirates on the sloping deck of the stranded derelict, had he dreamed that the day would come when the water would be flowing beneath her keel once more and that the hand which steadied her wheel would be his.

“Ahoy, there!” he called gaily to the mate.

“Aye, aye, sir!” responded George, glancing astern, over his shoulder.

“Shin up aloft and put a two-reef in the maintops’l,” the skipper barked, endeavoring to imitate the deep tones of Cap’n Crumbie.

Deserting his post for a moment, George ran to the mast stump, and clung to it like a bear hugging a pole.

“Belay, there!” shouted Jack, laughingly. “Get back on to your job, or—”

The skipper never completed his sentence. Slipping quickly back to the nose of the boat, George arrived there at the precise moment when the Sea-Lark ran upon one of the numerous shallows which threatened to impede her progress all along the route. The sloop came to a standstill with a jerk, and George, his hands outstretched to grasp his pole once more, took a graceful dive straight over the side. He could swim like a young otter, but there was no need for that, as the water came up only to his chest, and he soon climbed back on board, there to withstand the playful taunts of his father and of the captain, who condemned him to twenty years’ imprisonment in the chain-locker and ordered him to be deprived of his wages for life, for absenting himself from the ship without leave.

Together the lads managed to push the sloop off again, and the journey was resumed, but soon they reached the bend bringing them into Cow Creek, and there the dory’s sail again became useless, so it was lowered and Tony and George rowed the rest of the distance, the exercise preventing the boy from suffering any ill effects from his ducking. George was nevertheless thankful by the time they approached his father’s boat-yard, for the sloop hung behind like a load of lead, the wind, which was now against her, adding to the work. She was gently eased up on to the bank of the stream, there to lie until her various minor ailments had been attended to and until she was declared fit for a new career of adventure.

CHAPTER IV
THE TRIAL TRIP

Immediately after school on the following Monday afternoon Jack and his chum hastened to what they were pleased to call their “dry-dock.” Although Tony Santo had calked the worst of the cracks between the planks under the sloop’s water-line before he actually launched her, she had taken in a good deal of water during her journey along the Sangus River and up Cow Creek. It was obvious, therefore, that several afternoons would be taken up with the task of filling the numerous small crevices along her hull, although the boat-builder assured them that the swelling of the wood after she had been afloat a few days would to some extent remedy this trouble.

The boys went about their task in a thoroughly businesslike manner. With coats off and shirt-sleeves rolled up, and wearing the oldest trousers they could find, they applied themselves diligently and intelligently to their work. Tony, who took a genuine interest in the affair, devoted an hour or two to them on the first day, teaching the boys how to use the calking-iron and mallet, how to lay the thin strip of oakum along the defective seam, and how to ram it into the cavity without injuring the boat itself. Also, they learned to distinguish between a seam which needed calking and one which did not.

After putting them through their short apprenticeship, the boat-builder sat on an upturned box, lighted his pipe with deliberation, and for a while watched his pupils at work.

“Steady, there!” he said. “Don’t try to go too fast. You’re not out to make a record. Not too hard with the mallet, or you may do more harm than good. That’s the style!”

As the tide had receded it had left the vessel canting over on her starboard side, and Tony had told the repair gang to take one seam at a time, working from stem to stern as far as possible, for the Sea-Lark was high and dry only at low water.

“Now I guess you’re all right, and I’ll leave you to it,” said Tony at length. “How long are you going to keep it up?”

“Till supper-time,” replied Jack, tapping away industriously with the mallet in his right hand, while with his left he held up the small iron which rammed the oakum home.

“You’ll be wanting some paint for this boat soon,” said Tony, with a mysterious smile. “Now, if you keep on with what you’re doing till it’s time to knock off for supper, I’ll—I’ll make you a present of all the paint you need.”

Jack, wondering what the joke was, turned to the boat-builder.

“Do you mean that?” he asked. “What’s the catch?”

“You’ll find out,” replied Tony. “What does that mallet weigh?”

“About four pounds,” guessed Jack.

“Three and a half,” said Tony. “And what does that other little thing—the iron—weigh?”

“Oh, a quarter of a pound.”

“Just right,” said Tony. “Now, which arm will get tired first, the one you are holding the mallet with, or the one you’re using for the iron?”

“Which do you think, George?” asked the skipper, with caution.

“Why, the mallet arm,” suggested George promptly. “That thing weighs about ten times as much as the iron.”

“That’s my guess too,” said Jack.

“Well, well, we’ll see,” said Tony, the smile having developed into a broad grin as he sauntered off to his own work in the near-by boat-yard.

For a while the boys were too intent on their occupation to carry on much conversation. They worked side by side, each taking a separate seam, and each glancing occasionally at the work of the other.

“Have you ever done any calking before?” Jack asked when they had been plugging at it for some time.

“Not a calk!” replied the youthful mate.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?”

“Lots!” replied George. “Which arm are you having most of the fun in—the right or the left?”

Jack stole a glance at his companion, who was now standing with both his arms hanging down.

“Your dad said this little iron only weighed four ounces,” observed Jack, lowering the implement, and rubbing his shoulder. “What’s happened to the thing? It seems to weigh more than the mallet now.”

Just then Tony strolled back and caught them both resting.

“Are you going to buy that paint, or am I?” he asked quizzically.

“I’m afraid it’ll have to be me,” replied Jack. “I could keep on with the hammering, but it’s holding up this little iron all the time that bothers me.”

“It tries anybody, men included, at first,” said Tony. “Don’t do too much to-day and then you won’t be too stiff to work to-morrow. You’ll soon get used to it, though. There’s a lot of scrubbing to be done on the deck, so I’d switch off and get busy with the soap and water for a change.”

The inside of the cabin was just as the boys had finished scraping it out with a shovel, so here considerable time had to be spent before a coat of paint could be put on the woodwork. Where the paint was coming from Jack, so far, had not the least notion. He had already discovered, to his dismay, that paint was an extremely expensive article for one whose total capital did not touch the five-dollar mark, especially when pounds and pounds of the stuff were needed to put even a single coat on sparingly. There were precisely two reasons why he would not attempt to get the necessary money by borrowing from George. One was that he had a constitutional dislike to borrowing. The other was that George would be unable to lend it; for George had not yet learned the wisdom of reserving a little of his spending-money for a rainy day. There was a way out of the difficulty, of course, for the skipper of the Sea-Lark. He could find a job somewhere. But that would take precious time. He was prepared to do it if necessary, but hated the idea of postponing the preparation of the sloop for her maiden voyage until he could earn enough money to give her a new “dress.” However, there was plenty to occupy his attention for the present, and he was an incurable optimist, so he felt convinced the paint would roll up in some unexpected fashion, after all.

Next day both Jack and the mate were stiff in the shoulder, but they set to work as early as possible in the afternoon, doing an hour’s calking first and then turning to with the scrubbing-brushes. There were two sleeping-bunks besides lockers in the cabin, all of which had to be swabbed down and then scrubbed. In the middle of this performance, while Jack was on his knees, working away in a corner, he noticed that the sound of the other scrubbing-brush had ceased, and turned to ascertain the cause. He discovered his henchman lying, apparently fast asleep, in one of the bunks.

“What’s the matter? Are you all right, George?” he asked anxiously, springing to his feet.

“Eh? What’s that?” queried George, as though just awakened from deepest slumber.

“Tired?” asked the skipper.

“Why, no; not specially,” replied his chum.

“What’s the idea, then? Come on.”

“Well, I’ve just remembered something,” replied George. “I signed on this ship as chief mate, didn’t I? Well, the chief mate is the navigating officer, isn’t he? I’ve got to know all about the currents and the rocks and charts and stars, and nothing was said, when I was engaged, about me having to scrub the—”

“George Santo,” the skipper began in his best deep voice, “if you’re not out of that in ten seconds you’ll know more about stars than you’ve ever seen in your life. I’m going to empty this bucket of water over that bunk when I say three. One—two—”

With a second to spare, the mate displayed remarkable agility in descending, and became desperately busy once more, to avoid the captain’s wrath.

It was a full week before the last of the calking was done, and Tony, after a careful inspection, declared it to be perfectly satisfactory. He added a touch here and there where a little more oakum was needed, and then provided a bucket of tar and a brush, telling Jack to daub her hull over completely, beneath the water-line.

Although still far from being finished, the Sea-Lark began to assume the part of a real boat in Jack’s estimation. She was no longer the leaky old sieve which he and George had played on through two summers. He was realizing, for the first time in his life, the real satisfaction which comes from conscientious labor. The calking of those leaks in the seams had been done with infinite care and at the cost of many an ache and pain. His hands were blistered and calloused from work to which he was not accustomed, but it was with a growing sense of pride in his handiwork that he viewed the sloop. At times he was a little impatient, for the days were rushing past and June was fast approaching, but nevertheless he did not shirk any of the harder toil which he might have left half done. It was his firm determination that the boat should be as satisfactory as he could make her. Nor, despite his joking, was George Santo inclined to skip the less pleasant portions of their task.

After the bottom of the sloop had been tarred, and the whole of the deck and cabin scrubbed, Jack, on the advice of Cap’n Crumbie, invested in a bundle of sandpaper, and another three days were spent scraping and smoothing down the woodwork, which had become roughened in places by long exposure. Cap’n Crumbie walked from the wharf to see how they were getting on with the Sea-Lark, and Jack took him into consultation on the pressing subject of paint.

The watchman meditatively ran a stubby forefinger through his whiskers.

“Aye, she’s bleached for fair,” he said. “She won’t sail no better with paint on her woodwork, but she’ll look a world different. As you say, though, paint’s expensive, and it’ll take a tidy bit to give her even one thin coat.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be the best kind of paint, Cap’n,” Jack said. “If only I could get hold of some old stuff, it would do. I’m not so very particular about the color.”

“I’ve got it!” cried the watchman, suddenly, beaming. “You go up and see Dan Staples, the house-painter. Tell him I sent you, and he’ll fix you up all right. I remember now they’ve got a tub up there where they throw all the old dried-up skins and bits of waste paint, same as they do in all paint shops. It won’t cost you much. I guess he’ll be able to let you have all you want for about a dollar. It’ll be a bit o’ trouble, but as you ain’t too particular about the color, you couldn’t get anything better to suit you. Put it in an old pan and melt it over a fire. Then strain it, and you’ll have as good paint as you’d want. Maybe it’ll be reddish, or maybe it’ll be grayish; and maybe you won’t be able to find a name for it; but that won’t break your heart, huh?”

“That’s fine!” said Jack. “I’ll go up and see him now.”

The captain of the Sea-Lark found Mr. Staples in his workshop, and when Jack explained his mission the painter filled a generously sized can with scraps and skins out of the tub, for which Jack paid him fifty cents.

The rest of the afternoon was devoted to the task of melting this down over a small stove in the boat-yard, and after straining it the boys found they had many pounds of a brownish-colored paint, a little nondescript as to hue, perhaps, but nevertheless, as Cap’n Crumbie had prophesied, perfectly good paint. The tarring along the sides of the sloop below the water-line had been finished off evenly, and the boys now proceeded to slap a coat of the Staples mixture from the top of the black line to the top of the low rail which ran the full length of the Sea-Lark’s deck; and by the time this had been accomplished the sloop was indeed transformed into something of her old glory. Jack would have turned next to the painting of the cabin and the deck itself, but here Tony wisely interfered.