He remembered Rex Kingdon from the time when the latter had come down

out of the backwoods with the Ridgewood High nine to play a local team

of which Pence was a member. Rex had pitched part of that game. The

black-browed chap had nursed a grudge against Kingdon since that

occasion because of some few personal remarks that were passed in the

heat of argument over a play. Kingdon, of course, had forgotten all

about it long ago.

At the time of that gone-by game Horace was sure he was a better pitcher

than Rex, though he had little opportunity of learning much about

Kingdon's all-round ability in the game. Learning, through the refusal

of the Manatee Lumber Company to grant Ben Comas and his friends

permission to camp on Storm Island, that Rex Kingdon was to be there for

the summer, Horace had instantly made up his mind that he desired to

cross swords with the blond fellow of whom he had taken such a dislike.

With the two parties encamped upon the island, there would be plenty of

opportunity to try conclusions with Kingdon. Pence had no intention of

having the meetings of his party with the Walcott Hall boys to be so

friendly. Somehow, Kingdon's careless good nature had removed the

friction.

Horace had the elements of a decent chap in his makeup. His standard of

honor was not high; yet he was not of the caliber of Ben Comas. Having

actually challenged Kingdon, and having been given a square deal, Horace

could not bring himself to end the session in an open wrangle with Rex

and his crowd.

"There!" he finally observed, sending in a twister that quite puzzled

Red Phillips. "That's my last for to-day. I've amused you chaps

enough."

"Didn't want to suggest it," Kingdon said seriously, coming forward to

meet the black-haired fellow, "but I do think, old chap, that you rather

overdo it. No wing will stand such a steady strain. You've got a lot

of speed in that left arm, and you ought to take care of it. Where's

your sweater?"

"This hot day?" laughed Pence, uncertain that Kingdon was not chaffing.

The backstop picked up his own discarded jacket and held it out so that

Pence could easily slip his arms into it.

"No josh," he said as Horace slowly got into the coat. "I'm going to

make my cripples work a little--if you fellows don't want your diamond

for a while."

"Your cripples?" repeated Horace, interested in spite of himself.

"Cloudman and Midkiff, our two star pitchers. Both have done some good

work this last term. And both of 'em have the spring halt in their

elbows." Kingdon laughed.

"Help yourself," said Horace carelessly. "I want a rest, and Harry and

the others won't play if I don't."

Kingdon's voice dropped a point or two as he said:

"I'd like to show you a few, Pence, if you'll stand without hitching.

You don't play regularly with any team, do you?"

"No."

"If our coach could get hold of you he'd turn out a real ball-player

before he got through with you, believe me!"

"Indeed?" drawled Horace. "I had no idea you had a coach at that

fresh-water kindergarten. Thought you were the whole cheese there."

"Oh, no," laughed Kingdon, apparently not at all ruffled. "There are

other cheeses at Walcott Hall."

He turned away and called his crew together, while Pence went back to

his friends and sat down in the shade.

"Say!" exploded Ben Comas. "You're thicker'n hasty-puddin' with that

blond fellow. What's the idea?"

"Why didn't you knock his head off?" growled the glowering Kirby. "He's

too fresh!"

"He wasn't fresh with me," Horace Pence returned cheerfully. "Knock his

head off yourself, Harry--if you think you can do it."

"Huh!" grunted Ben. "You said you was going to fix him if he came to

Storm Island. Didn't he, Pudge?"

"That's what you did, Horrors," agreed the fat chap.

"Wait till he gives me an opening, will you?" snapped Horace with some

fretfulness.

"What sort of an opening do you want?" demanded Ben. "Look what he did

to us last night."

"Old stuff," responded Horace, cool again. "We've made a bargain,

haven't we, that wipes that out?"

"Bargain!" sneered Ben.

"He stole our canoes," said Kirby.

"And he did it to make the bargain," laughed Pence. "Smart chap, that

Rex King. You got to hand it to him."

"Wait till Joe Bootleg gets a chance at him," said Ben. "He'll hand him

something he won't forget. Joe's eye is in mourning, and he's as lame

and bruised as though he'd been through a threshing machine."

Horace remained silent.

Kingdon sent out his men to bat and practice base running, and Hicks

gave an exhibition of his ability to steal sacks, being highly

successful. Horace Pence was really interested in this practice. Such

snappy work he had never seen before. Kirby and Ben Comas lighted

cigarettes.

"You fellows better cut out the coffin-nails if you want to keep your

wind," Kingdon advised them.

"You better smoke a few yourself, Blondy," growled Kirby, "if they'll

really reduce your supply of hot air."

"He's right," drawled Horace. "I guess I won't smoke now." But his

real reason for not smoking was that he had discovered he was not

wearing his own coat.

The sun was getting low when Kingdon called it a day's work. Horace and

his party scrambled to their feet, too, when the Walcott Hall boys

collected their possessions and prepared to go down to their camp.

Horace tossed the borrowed jacket to Kingdon, saying:

"Much obliged."

"Same to you," Kingdon returned, "for the use of your lay-out here."

"You're welcome whenever we're not playing," Horace said lazily and

walked off with his crowd.

"What d'ye think of that bunch?" Cloudman said as the Walcott Hall boys

approached camp.

"That Horrors has some speed," little Hicks stated wisely.

"He's an ugly brute," was Red's opinion.

"So are you," laughed Kingdon. "There are no medals on you, Bricktop,

for politeness. And as for Mid--he's got a grouch that won't rub off."

"Well," said Midkiff, decidedly, "I don't like one little thing about

that gang."

"And here is this blue-eyed beauty," said Red, "wants to inveigle

Horrors into----"

He broke off suddenly; but it wasn't a warning from Kingdon that hushed

Phillips. They had come in sight of the camp. Moored to the bank below

it was a motorboat. A fellow with a straw-colored chin whisker and a

plentiful sprinkling of freckles on his red face, sat on a rock before

their tent.

"Hullo! Who's the guest?" drawled Kingdon.

"Look!" whispered Hicks. "It's a constable! See his badge, fellows?"

The freckle-faced officer was none other than Enos Quibb, of Blackport.

*CHAPTER XII.*

*AN UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTY.*

Quibb was eyeing the Walcott Hall boys with disfavor as they approached.

In truth, his usual expression seemed to be sour, and his look now

registered nothing pleasant for Rex Kingdon and his friends.

"That's what I thought," he said sharply, squinting at Kingdon. "You

ain't--narry one o' ye--the boys I seen over to t'other camp when I was

here before."

"Do tell!" drawled Kingdon. "Your eyesight hasn't gone back on you.

You are just as unfamiliar to our eyes as we are to yours."

"Ha!" said Enos. "Who d'ye s'pose I be?"

"The Czar of all the Russias--in disgeeze," said Rex airily. "I see

you're not toting your scepter, and it's too hot a day, of course, to

wear a crown. You'd ruin the sweatband."

The constable glared. "I'll tell you who I be. I'm Constable Quibb, of

Blackport, that's who I be! And I wanter know by what right you boys

air camping on this here island?"

"Oh, buttons and buttonhooks!" murmured Red Phillips. "I knew he

couldn't be toting that tin star just for decorative purposes. You can

see he's round shouldered from carrying it."

"Come on!" commanded Enos Quibb, rising threateningly from his seat.

"Who are you youngsters, and what are ye doin' here?"

"How abrupt you are," Kingdon said soothingly. His hand was fumbling in

the inner pocket of his jacket. "Suppose we have a permit to camp on

Storm Island?"

"Wal, s'pose you have," snapped Enos. "Le's see it."

"All in good time----"

"Ye can't fool me none," interrupted the constable. "I know who's got

the permit from the Manatee Company. And there ain't but one party been

give it, neither. Can't fool me."

"I wouldn't try," Rex said with apparent awe. "It would be _Lese

Majeste_--no less."

"Huh? I dunno what ye're sayin'," said Quibb suspiciously. "Le's see

your letter from the Manatee Lumber Company."

The other fellows were by this time staring at Kingdon wonderingly. He

did not produce the permit.

"Oh, we have it," the blond chap said, waving his hand. "Don't let it

worry you, Mr. Constable."

"Ya-as. So ye say. An' I s'pose you'll tell me, too, that your name is

Kingdon?"

"Why, yes, that does happen to be my name," said Rex. He stopped

searching his pockets and stared at Enos Quibb with increasing interest.

Quibb broke into a raucous laugh.

"There's a big fam'bly of you Kingdons, I reckon?" he rasped out.

"Ain't you ashamed--lyin' like that? Your name ain't no more Kingdon

than mine is Obediah Smoke! I'm ready for you city chaps, I be. And

you git off this island. You ain't got no permit from the Manatee

Company--and you ain't Kingdon and his party. Now, git!"

Kingdon laughed as though highly amused. But, aside from Peewee's

echoing giggle, the remainder of the company seemed more vexed than

amused.

"Aw, show him the letter, Rex, and put the poor thing out of his

misery," Midkiff urged.

"He's too noisy for comfort, Kingdon," said Applejack. "Why torture him

so?"

"I'm warnin' ye," Enos sputtered. "I was goin' over east to Collings

Point on an errand, and I see your boat. I knowed only one party

belonged here----"

"How do you know we're not that party?" asked Rex, with sudden

seriousness.

"'Cause I already been to that other camp--t'other day. And they told

me who they was all right."

"Did they?" drawled Kingdon. "Did you see their permit?"

"Huh? Wal--I can't say I did--exactly," admitted the constable. "But

'twarn't necessary. I knew who they was."

"How did you know?"

"Why, they told me," said Enos, in a most innocent manner.

"Say!" snickered Hicks. "Who did they say they were?"

Kingdon made a gesture for Hicks, as well as the others, to keep quiet

and let him do the talking. "If you didn't ask to see their permit, Mr.

Constable," he said, argumentatively, "I don't see how you could know

for sure who they are. Why should you expect to see ours?"

"Never you mind about that," returned Enos, very red in the face again.

"I'll do my own business in my own way. You show me your permit."

"No," Kingdon refused quite earnestly. "The other crowd was here first.

Take a squint at their permit--if they have one. That's only fair."

Midkiff grumbled. "What's the matter with you, Rex?" he demanded.

"Always hunting trouble."

"Aw, give him a squint at the letter, and let him be on his way," said

Red. "He wearies me."

But Kingdon was obdurate. When Enos insisted, the blond youth waved him

airily aside.

"See those other chaps," he said. "Ask to see their permit from the

Manatee Company. Why try to play favorites, Mr. Constable?"

"I tell you what!" cried Enos Quibb threateningly. "You'll jest take

down your tent and pack your duds aboard that boat to-night. That's

what you'll do."

"Say not so!" groaned Rex.

"Yes, you will. I'd a mind ter let ye stay till mornin', when I come

back from the P'int. But not now. You'll go to-night."

"How about those other campers?" insisted Kingdon. "If they stay, we

stay."

"I'm going right along there now, and look at their permit. I neglected

to ask for it before, but I meant ter. An' then I'm comin' back. If

you boys ain't purty near ready to go aboard that catboat when I return,

I'll help ye off this islan' in a way ye won't like."

He stamped down to the shore and clambered over the rail of his

motor-launch. In a minute or two the boat chugged away.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*REX OWNS UP.*

"I'd like to know what's on your mind," quizzed Phillips. "It appeared

right foolish to me."

"What seems idiotic, Tobasco?" drawled Kingdon beginning to scrape away

the ashes of the old fire so as to lay a new one over which supper might

be cooked.

"Look here!" exclaimed Midkiff, quite warm. "Why didn't you show that

man the letter from the Manatee Company, and let him go about his

business?"

"He's gone about his business, Jawn--hasn't he?"

"He's gone to stir up trouble for that gang up at the other camp," said

the big fellow.

"Oh, hooky!" chuckled Peewee Hicks. "Was _that_ what you was up to,

Rex? Just making trouble for Horrors and his crowd?"

"Then you really want 'em put off?" asked Red slowly. "After what you

said to me about that slim chap being such good baseball timber?"

Whistling softly, Kingdon made no reply. Cloudman said, with confidence:

"We don't none of us know what he's up to. He's got something in his

sleeve."

"Something up his sleeve?" queried little Hicks wonderingly.

"Well, it doesn't matter," Midkiff said, much displeased. "That

constable is bound to come back here and pick a quarrel unless King

shows him the letter. What's the matter with you, anyway? You're as

mysterious as----"

"As Mysterious Billy Smith," chuckled Red, who couldn't hold a grouch

long. "I bet it's a joke. Tell us, you Blue-Eyed Beauty. Let us

chortle, too."

"You'll chortle when the time comes," Kingdon told him, with a grin that

was quickly effaced, however, by a serious expression of countenance.

"Now, come on and help get supper. How about those flapjacks you

promised?"

But Cloudman advised against the cakes, and canned beans again became

the main staple when the meal was announced. Kingdon tossed up some

"panbread," and there were canned peaches to eat with it. They were

making out a pretty good supper when the _put-put-a-put_ of the

motor-boat was heard again.

"Here we have Mr. Quibb the rural Sherlock," said Peewee. "What will we

do to him, Rex? Invite him to supper, or drown him?"

"I vote against wasting food," declared Red. "There isn't enough for

guests, anyway."

"Where's your hospitality, Phillips?" demanded Cloudman. "Of course

we'll feed him. He deserves something after the way he's been rigged."

"Now, show him that paper, Rex, and let him go," advised Midkiff

seriously.

"Hey, you!" yelled the constable from the water.

"Straw, you!" returned Peewee. "Come ashore and join us."

"If I come ashore," threatened the redoubtable Quibb, "you'll all move

mighty lively out o' there. Didn't I tell you to git?"

"We're hard of hearing, Mr. Constable," drawled Kingdon, without even

turning around to look down at the wrathful officer. "Better come up

and talk it over."

"I'll come up there and do suthin' ter you, ye fresh kid, that ye won't

like!" threatened Quibb, as he hopped ashore and tied the boat's painter

securely to a sapling.

"And I wouldn't blame him," rumbled Midkiff. But he stopped eating and

watched the man narrowly as he approached Kingdon. Midkiff was half a

foot taller than Enos and much more muscular.

"I wanter know why you raskils ain't makin' no move ter git out o'

here?" demanded the constable, glaring at Rex, whom he considered the

principal and leader of the crowd.

"Why, now," drawled the blond chap, "I didn't really think there was any

need of doing so."

"What d'ye mean?" snapped the constable. "You ain't got no right

here----"

"No more than those other fellows?" suggested Rex.

"They're all right. They told me the truth. I knowed who they was

before."

"And who are they?" asked Kingdon softly, while his friends stared at

Enos Quibb in amazement.

"They're them fellers that the Manatee Company said could camp here for

the summer," declared the constable.

"They told you so?"

"They did. They told me so before, when I come here."

"That they were Rex Kingdon and party?" demanded the blond chap from

Walcott Hall, quite seriously.

"Murder!" gasped Red Phillips. "What do you think o' that?"

"The gall of them!" exclaimed Midkiff.

"Prithee, hush," advised Rex, with a gesture. "Tell me, Mr. Quibb, do

they claim to be Mr. Kingdon and friends?"

The constable swelled so with importance that he seemed about to burst,

"I want yeou to understand that I know my business," he said. "I didn't

take their word for it. I seen the permit."

"What permit?" burst from Midkiff.

"From the Manatee Lumber Company, of course," Quibb told him. "I seen

it."

"The permit!" chorused Midkiff, Cloudman, Phillips and Little Hicks.

"A letter from the lumber company permitting 'R. Kingdon and party' to

camp on Storm Island for the summer?" asked Kingdon, softly.

"That's what I said," declared Enos importantly. "You fellers needn't

think you kin gull me. I know----"

"Are you sure the permit was valid?" asked the blond youth, just as

seriously as before.

"Huh?"

"For instance," he said, "was it typewritten on a Manatee Lumber Company

letter-head?"

"Of course it was!" snapped Enos. "Think I'm a idiot?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say it out loud," returned Rex pleasantly. "Do you know

the company's letter-head when you see it?"

"Think you are so smart!" cried the constable. "Look at this."

He drew forth the letter he had received from the company announcing the

coming of the camping party to the island. The lumber company gave

Quibb a small present each year to look out for Storm Island and see

that nobody without authority landed there.

"My goodness, Rex!" whispered Midkiff. "What do you make of this?"

Kingdon made no immediate reply. He was looking seriously at the

constable, whose inflamed face was not far from his own.

"You are quite convinced, Mr. Constable," he said politely, "that the

party over yonder is the one mentioned in your letter?"

"Of course I am. They got the permit. They showed it to me."

"But you did not see it when you interviewed them on a previous

occasion?"

"I didn't ax for it," admitted Enos, "when I was here before. But I've

seen it now. You ain't got no right on this island, and off you go."

"Mr. Quibb," Kingdon said, "you're being fooled. I'm the 'R. Kingdon'

referred to in that letter and in the permit. Don't suppose anybody

over at that other camp declared himself to be Rex Kingdon?"

"Huh? Not in so many words, mebbe," said the puzzled constable.

"I do so declare. Here! I have letters to prove it. Here is my

bill-case with my initials stamped on the flap of it. What do you say

to that?"

Rex had flashed these articles as he spoke--and so rapidly that Quibb

stood open-mouthed, staring.

"You may not believe that I am the 'R. Kingdon' named in your letter;

but give me a week and I will prove it to your satisfaction."

"But--but them other fellers?" demanded Enos weakly.

"Oh--now! Don't ask me about them," Kingdon said easily. "I haven't

got to swear to their identity, have I?"

"But they've got the permit."

Midkiff began to murmur again. Kingdon turned on him quite savagely.

"Will you keep still, Jawn? You're a regular old Betty." Then to Quibb

he said: "There is nothing in your letter, Mr. Constable, and nothing in

the permit, limiting the number of Mr. Kingdon's camping party? Am I

right?"

"Why--er--no. That's so."

"So I thought," said the suave Kingdon. "I tell you we are members of

the party permitted to land and camp here. Never mind if those other

fellows _have_ the permit; we have just as good right to be here, and

we'll show you."

"It don't sound reasonable to me," grumbled Enos Quibb. "One of you two

parties is lyin'--an' lyin' like all git aout! I ain't goin' ter be

fooled. I'm too smart a man for that. None of you schoolboys can

bamboozle me." His chest swelled until there was danger of his shirt

losing its buttons.

"We wouldn't think of such a thing," declared Kingdon.

"Huh? Well, I tell ye I _know_ those other fellers are all right. I

saw their permit. I'll give you fellers till mornin', when I come back

along from Collings P'int. No longer! Ye hear me?"

"Thank you, Mr. Squibb," said Rex, meekly.

"Quibb!" snarled the constable.

"Certainly. Fribb; thank you. But I know you'll think differently

about it when you've had a good sleep."

Enos turned away. He was fumbling a cigarette that had evidently been

given him at the other camp. Now he lit it, puffed it importantly, and

scrambled down to his boat, and went aboard.

"Why be such a dunce, Rex?" demanded Red, tartly. "Haven't you strung

the man along far enough? Show him your letter from the Manatee

Company."

"Yes," Midkiff echoed. "Why keep up a poor joke?"

"What are you trying to do, King?" demanded Cloudman.

"He'll only come back and bother us again," said Peewee Hicks

apprehensively. "What's the idea?"

Enos, fussing with his flywheel, was out of earshot when Rex spoke.

Rex chuckled. "I've lost the permit, fellows, I don't know when, or

how. I've got to stall along until I can get a letter from the lumber

company."

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*A LIVELY TIME.*

"You don't mean it, Rex?" asked Midkiff, seriously. Cloudman and Hicks

were open mouthed.

The motorboat began to sputter. They saw Quibb pottering about in her

cockpit, the red spark of his cigarette showing plainly as the boat

moved slowly out from the island.

She had crossed not more than a cable's length of the placid sound when

there was a dull pop and a flare of light. Enos Quibb squealed

affrightedly and tumbled sternward, seemingly surrounded by a halo of

flame.

"Great Scott!" shouted Cloudman, bounding shoreward. "He's touched off

his gas tank with that fool cigarette!"

What had caused the explosion aboard the motorboat did not matter. It

was the effect that held the attention of the Walcott Hall boys, who

stampeded to the edge of the water after Cloudman. Before any of them

reached the shore, Enos Quibb had pitched backward still yelling, over

the boat's stern, and disappeared under the surface of the water.

The boat, now well alight, kept on its way across the sound. There was

no other craft in sight save the boats belonging to the two parties of

campers on Storm Island.

Kingdon's wits were quite as active in this emergency as they were while

he was bandying words with the unfortunate constable. He hesitated not

an instant in hauling on the mooring line of the _Spoondrift_.

"Come on!" he commanded. "Get aboard and help me up with a hand's

breadth of sail, you fellows. Maybe Quibb will drown if we don't look

sharp."

"In this calm sea?" sniffed Midkiff, though first to assist his friend.

"You can't tell. Maybe he can't swim."

"He doesn't seem able even to float," squealed little Hicks. "I don't

see him come up."

"Keep your eye on the place he went down--hullo! Blacky to the rescue!"

exclaimed Rex suddenly.

One of the canoes was darting from the direction of the other camp, and

Horace Pence, alone in it, was making his paddle fly. Before Kingdon

and his mates were fairly aboard the catboat the canoe was over the spot

where Enos Quibb had disappeared.

"He'll get him, King," said Cloudman.

"No chance for us doing the rescue act," Rex observed.

"Get a move on, you fellows!" commanded Rex. "Never know what may

happen----"

"There he is!" shouted Hicks from the shore. "He's come up."

"There's a pretty breeze," said Kingdon. "Up with the sail! I wish I'd

tinkered with this old engine instead of fooling around on shore

to-day."

Midkiff gave the flywheel a sharp turn. The spark began to sputter.

"What's the matter with that?" cried Red. "And she pos-i-tive-ly refused

to say a word out there when that squall struck us yesterday."

"Great!" laughed Kingdon. "Give her some gas. That's the boy! Never

mind the sheet."

The _Spoondrift_ began to move, and Kingdon shoved the tiller down.

Hicks shouted again from the shore:

"That man's goin' to have him overboard! There--she--blo-o-ows!"

The constable, perhaps more frightened than hurt, had come to the

surface, blowing bubbles and sputtering like a bad exhaust. The moment

the canoe came within reach, he had seized its gunwale.

Only one thing could happen then--to a canoe. She dipped and shipped

several buckets of water. Pence began to bawl:

"Wait! Let me give you a hand, you idiot! Don't tip her like that."

But Enos Quibb bore his weight on the frail craft, and he was

heavier--with all the water he had swallowed--than Horace. The latter

could not balance the fragile craft, and, just as little Hicks let out

his bellow, the canoe went over, and the black-browed youth was shot in

a perfect parabola over the head of the sinking constable.

The latter went down again. It was plain that water was not his natural

element. He remained under longer than Pence; but when he came to the

surface for the second time, Pence seized him.

"Now we'll see some fun," prophesied Phillips as the _Spoondrift_ slowly

moved toward the spot. "Quibby has lost his head completely."

"And no great loss," muttered Midkiff. "Maybe he'd get some sense."

"Hush! Hush! This is a serious moment," breathed Kingdon, manipulating

the tiller with care.

And it _was_ a serious moment for the two struggling in the water.

Quibb got a strangle hold almost immediately on Horace Pence, and they

went under. Pence was a strong swimmer, but a person needs a chance to

breathe if he is going to do anything in the water.

Their heads again showed above the surface, and the constable let out a

gurgling yell. Horace was grimly silent. In that very exciting moment

Kingdon felt a thrill of admiration for the leader of the other camping

party.

"Hit him a clump on the head!" shouted Red Phillips, leaning over the

catboat's rail as she approached the imperiled pair.

Horace, however, was in no position to do that. He had his right arm

around the constable, holding his head above water; and, as the man

continued to struggle, his rescuer needed his other hand, as well as his

feet, to paddle with. Besides, to strike a really heavy blow while in

the water is all but impossible.

"Here, Mid! Take the hel-lum!" cried Kingdon.

He had already kicked off his canvas shoes. As his roommate seized the

tiller, Rex poised on the dipping rail and took a long dive. He merely

skimmed under the surface of the water, rising directly beside the

overturned canoe.

"'Ray! Rex! King! King!" cheered Peewee from the shore. "That's the

lad!"

Midkiff brought the catboat sharply around, and shut off the engine.

Kingdon had seized the now weakly struggling Quibb.

"Let him go--I've got him," he advised Horace Pence. "The boys will

give you a hand over the rail, and then we'll get this fellow aboard."

But Pence needed no help, once freed of the incubus of Enos Quibb. He

scrambled aboard, while Kingdon raised the constable so Red and Cloudman

could get hold of him.

"Oh, boys! boys!" gasped Enos. "I'm drownded!"

Kingdon was laughing at him as he climbed aboard. "You would have been,

all right, if it hadn't been for Blacky here," he said. "You want to

remember him in your will, Mr. Squibb."

"Quibb," corrected Enos faintly.

"Excuse me, Fibb. Hold on, Pence! Where you going?" asked the Walcott

Hall youth as the black-browed one started forward with the boathook.

"Want to spear that canoe. I can get her over--and yonder's the

paddle," Horace responded.

"Why so hurried a departure?" demanded Kingdon, smiling at him. "Aren't

we hospitable enough?"

Horace made no answer, quickly drawing the overturned canoe within

reach. Cloudman helped him, and they soon had the canoe out of the

water, emptied, and again on its keel.

"Why the rush?" Kingdon asked.

Pence, still speechless, got into the canoe with care. His paddle was

within reach, and he seized upon it. Then he drove the canoe back

toward his own camp at an easy clip.

"Social sort of a beggar," grumbled Red Phillips. "Didn't even stop to

thank us for saving him from a watery grave."

"Better get after that launch, Rex," Midkiff said. "She's still

burning."

"Right-o!" agreed the curly-haired chap. "If she keeps on she may bump

her nose into those rocks across the sound. See if you can start our

engine again, Jawn."

The _Spoondrift's_ engine, after some sputtering, concluded to pop

regularly, and Rex went back to the helm. The speed of the catboat

under its auxiliary was not great; but the breeze was so light that they

would have made small progress by hoisting sail.

The constable crept down into the cockpit, coughing and ill.

"You're not much of a fish, Mr. Squibb," Kingdon said, smiling at the

man cheerfully. "You'd ought to do your sailing in a shallow spot."

"And you ought to do your smoking ashore," advised Midkiff. "What's the

idea of carrying a lighted cigarette near your gas tank?"

"It leaked," said Enos feebly.

"What leaked? The cigarette?" chuckled Red.

"There's a leak somewhere--no fear," Kingdon said with grimness. "Any

grown human being who would smoke one of those things--and near

gasoline--Well! You want to have a care, Squibb."

"Quibb," faintly corrected the constable.

"Is it your launch?" Cloudman asked.

"Yes," Enos said gloomily. "And I guess 'twon't be wuth much. Oh! I'm

jest as sore as a bile where I was burned."

"Gosh!" drawled Phillips. "You're like the man that tried to commit

suicide. You was somewhat undecided whether to burn or drown, I

s'pose."

"No laffin' matter," whined Enos.

They overhauled the launch without much trouble, for her engine had gone

dead. Only the woodwork in the stern was scorched; but the tattered

awning had gone up in smoke. There was little serious damage done.

"Better luck than you had a right to expect, Mr. Constable," Kingdon

told him cheerfully. "Don't believe you'd better go on to your

destination to-night. We'll tow your launch back to our anchorage, and

give you some supper. You'll be welcome."

"Wal;--I dunno but I'd better," Enos groaned. "Oh! them burns do smart."

When they got back to the camp both boats were carefully moored and far

enough apart so that they would not scrape sides in the night. Kingdon

was prepared with a first-aid kit, and he anointed the burns of the

victim of the accident, while Red Phillips heated up some canned beans

and some of the panbread for him.

Mr. Quibb elected to sleep aboard his own boat. When he had departed for

the night and the boys crowded together at the tent opening, there was a

general--and somewhat excited, if low-voiced--discussion.

"It's so, I suppose," Kingdon yielded finally. "Our black-browed friend,

Horrors, has got the permit. Swiped it out of my jacket pocket up there

at the diamond. I am positive it was in my coat when we went up there."

"Sure!" cried Peewee. "This constable tells us he saw it. Of course

Horrors displayed it as his own."

"Then he's posing under your name, Rex," Midkiff said, in anger.

"I tell you what!" said Phillips. "Let's go over there and take it away

from them. The cheap scrubs! I bet that letter isn't the first thing

they've stolen."

"No, Larry," Kingdon said quietly, and shaking his head. "That isn't

the way to go about it. I've got a better scheme than that."

*CHAPTER XV.*

*WHAT'S SAUCE FOR THE GOOSE.*

Kingdon invited the woebegone Quibb to breakfast the next morning. The

constable had passed a painful night, being scorched rather seriously on

neck and arms.

"I wouldn't have that surly old boy around for a minute," Red Phillips

growled, as he helped Rex prepare the morning meal.

"Don't be so ha'sh, Larry," Kingdon advised. "'Soft words butter no

parsnips,' but they help a lot, just the same. Don't you see, too, that

it's the part of wisdom for us to make a friend of this tin-badger. We

should be as wise as serpents but harmless as doves."

"Huh! Don't see it! If you'd just be reasonable and let us all go over

there to that other camp and wade into that bunch."

"Would that prove anything?" chuckled Kingdon. "Even to a country

constable?"

"Well!"

"Your idea of proving the case smacks of ancient times, my child. It

might have worked well five or six hundred years ago," his blond friend

said lightly. "'Trial by force of arms,' or something like that. But

it isn't done now, Larry; it really isn't done--not in the best

circles."

"Great snakes!" rejoined the red-haired youth. "You're the coolest

fellow, Rex, to let that Horrors take your name----"

"The black-browed villain!" chuckled Kingdon.

"And let him get away with it!"

"He hasn't got away with anything yet," was the quick rejoinder.

"I'd like to have you show me why he hasn't," returned Red. "He's got

that permit and made a monkey of this constable."

"Well," drawled Kingdon, "I don't mind that, you know. Squibb is no

relation of mine."

"But why all the tenderness for Horrors? He didn't even thank you for

getting him out of his pickle last night."

"Presume he was too full of gratitude for speech."

"He was--like fun! He didn't have the decency to thank you. A fellow

that would steal----"

"Hush-a-by-baby!" chided Kingdon. "Old Mid and I pilfered their canoes,

didn't we?"

"That was only in fun."

"This is going to be fun before we are through with it, my dear fellow."

"Ah--well----"

"Let it go at that," advised his blond friend cheerfully. "Leave it to

yours truly to pull all the chestnuts out of the fire. We must not get

into further trouble with the Sheriff of Nottingham. Go on, Red; call

him up to breakfast."

So the constable remained to eat with the Walcott Hall boys. If there

was a good deal of quiet fun thrust at him, Enos Quibb did not know it.

Aside from his high opinion of his own importance as an officer of the

law, he was rather a thick-skinned individual.

He seemed to feel, however, that there was something due his hosts. He

stood about after breakfast and coughed for a time, finally blurting

out:

"Wal, of course, you boys understand I ain't got nothin' personal

against you. Quite the contrary--yes, sir! Ye sartainly did me a good

turn last night. And I'd like ter do you a good turn in _re_-turn."

"Fly to it, old boy," Peewee Hicks urged. "Put us down in your will for

a good fat sum."

Enos did not give heed to this chaff. He added:

"Of course, I know you boys ain't got a mite of right on this island.

That Kingdon chap showed me his permit, fair an' square, over to t'other

camp. Dunno where _you_ got them letters and that wallet with his

initials on it that ye give me a peek at," he pursued, looking at

Kingdon. "'Tis abeout as much as my job's wuth, I guess; but I'll try

not ter see ye over here when I pass by. But I wish ye _would_ find

some other place ter camp on."

"Nothing doing. We're just wedded to Storm Island," Kingdon declared.

"Wal, if anybody sees ye and tells me abeout it, course I gotter take

notice _then_. Guess I'll go," finished Enos, evidently much disturbed

in spirit. Descending the steep shore to his launch, he got under way

this time without accident, and the motorboat chugged away.

"I'll be hanged," muttered Red, "if I'm not rather sorry for the old

lad, after all."

"Rex! You've got to send to the lumber company and get a copy of that

permit," Midkiff declared with vigor. "Show those fellows up----"

"And get them put off the island?" drawled Kingdon.

"Why not?" Cloudman asked.

"Oh--well--I've another use for that bunch," said Rex. "Why use the

rough stuff when guile and strategy--to say nothing of intrigue--are on

tap?"

"Aw, drop that, Rex!" begged Midkiff.

"Why so, Grouch? That Horrors chap has got the laugh on us. He got it

without honor, to be sure; but he didn't use a blackjack or brass

knuckles. Shall we have it said of us that a crowd like that worked

something fancy on us, and we had to volley with a

knock-down-and-drag-out argument? Say not so! We got away with their

canoes, they filched our permit. Tit for tat. Should we cry baby?

Where's your sporting instincts?"

"Sporting instincts!" repeated Midkiff with disgust.

"Great snakes alive!" grumbled Red. "Listen to him rave."

"Needn't put me on the same plane as those fellows over yonder,"

objected Hicks, with a comic show of virtuous importance.

"Reckon you're too easy on 'em, Kingdon," said the Western lad. "That

affair of the canoes wasn't serious. Stealing our permit and posing as

the rightful owners of it is sure different."

"If your morals are as weak as your reasoning," laughed Kingdon, "I'm

sorry for you chaps. What's sauce for the goose is good gravy for the

gander."

"Oh, have it your own way; you always do, you blue-eyed mama's darling!"

cried Larry Phillips. "No use fighting you. You'd raise a row if you

didn't have the biggest apple and the reddest candy cane."

Derision left Kingdon unruffled. Opposition in any form made no

difference to him when he once had a course of action mapped out. As he

intimated, he had future use for Horace Pence and his friends on Storm

Island. Just what this was Kingdon had no intention of divulging at the

moment.

The fellows of the other camp kept well away from the Walcott Hall boys

that day, and the next. Rex and his friends on either day went up to

the clearing in the center of the island for short practice only, and

they saw nothing of Pence and his comrades.

Kingdon insisted upon knocking down the engine of the catboat and going

over the parts carefully. Both he and Red knew a good deal about

automobile engines, and this was not so much different.

"It looks to your Uncle Edison Marconi," quoth Rex finally, "as though

the main trouble with this bunch of junk is that, in a moment of

hallucination, the owner mentioned it as an 'engine.' Old age has crept

over this machine, and Father Time has left his indelible mark on

certain parts of it. They must be renewed if we are to place any

dependence at all in this form of motive power this summer."

"To get down to cases," scoffed Midkiff, "you want some new parts?"

"The engine does," Kingdon said sweetly. "I, personally, am fairly

new."

"Quite," agreed Red. "And fresh."

"How're you going to get the parts?" Cloudman asked practically.

"Go after them to Blackport. To-morrow, if 'tis fair and there's a

breeze ruffling the surface of yon sound."

"All of us going?" questioned Midkiff. "Who's to watch camp?"

"That's right," Phillips said. "I don't trust those chaps yonder."

"They have been keeping away from here, all right," Peewee observed.

"That isn't saying they wouldn't come over and grab all our stuff if we

left it unguarded," Red said.

"Don't you think we'll have to risk that sometime, Red?" Kingdon asked.

"Not if you have that gang put off the island as you should," put in

Midkiff with tartness.

"Now, is that so?" mocked Rex. "They could hang around and do us plenty

of damage if they were put off, I suppose? If we are going to spend our

entire summer worrying about a lot of amateur pirates like them, we'll

have a fine time--I don't think."

"Well, they've robbed us once."

"And you have embraced Quaker doctrines, Rex," Red added, with some

sharpness. "Turn the other cheek stuff, and all that."

The blond youth's eyes twinkled. "If they touch our lares and penates,

I agree to lead you against the Philistines, and we will smite them hip

and thigh--and on the nose. How's that?"

"It's a promise," grunted Cloudman.

"Most sensible thing I've heard you say since we landed on Storm

Island," said Red Phillips.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*WHITE WINGS.*

With that understanding, the Walcott Hall lads sought their beds that

night, and arose betimes in the morning. The sun was scarcely up when

they were aboard the catboat and drifted out of the tiny cove in which

she had been anchored.

They selected to have breakfast aboard and, as he knew very little about

sailing a boat, Cloudman agreed to be the "doctor" during the cruise.

There is no more comfortable, roomy, or safe boat for her size than a

cat, and, despite her broad beam, with a stiff breeze blowing, the

_Spoondrift_ could walk the water in amazing fashion. Beside, Kingdon

was skillful at sailing a craft of her kind.

"How did you learn so much about it, Rex?" asked Peewee Hicks.

"Sailed in pretty near every kind of a one-man or two-man dish all

around the seven seas," declared Kingdon airily. "From a catamaran to

an outrigger, or an Esquimaux kaiak, yours truly has tempted Father

Neptune."

"Wish to goodness you'd be really serious once in a while, Rex,"

grumbled Midkiff. "Never know whether you're dreaming or just plain

fibbing."

"There!" ejaculated Red Phillips. "Some rap that, Old Grouch; right in

the solar-plexus."

"But you surely _have_ traveled, Kingdon?" put in Cloudman, who had come

up from the low-roofed cabin to breathe.

"That used to be my middle name--before my father settled in Maine for

the sake of mother's health, and went into the lumber game. Rexford

Traveler Kingdon--that's me. Isn't it perfectly delightful to hear me

boast like this? I'm so modest about it, what?"

"There's another sail over yonder," cried Peewee suddenly. "Is she

heading in, too, Kingdon?"

"She's making a leg that way," announced the skipper. "Blackport

Channel is narrow, but deep. We'll have to make about the same number

of tacks as she'll make to get in. Another cat, too; but bigger than

the _Spoondrift_."

"And a whole lot fancier," Red Phillips declared.

"See her canvas!" cried Peewee. "White as snow."

"And this old tub looks like a slop bucket," complained Midkiff.

"Handsome is as handsome does," laughed Kingdon. "We know how well the

_Spoondrift_ acted the other day in that squall."

"She certainly spoke her little piece coming up from Boston," Red

admitted.

"That other boat's going to cross our bow, Kingdon," Peewee announced

excitedly.

"Don't you believe it, infant," was the prompt rejoinder.

"But she is, I tell you----"

"Watch out!" called Kingdon. He swung the tiller hard over and the

_Spoondrift_ turned almost on her heel. The white spume flew across the

decked-over bows into the cockpit, Cloudman getting about half a

bucketful down the back of his neck.

"What do you think you're doing?" he yelled, leaping up.

"Hold on!" advised Red, choked with laughter.

The sail of the _Spoondrift_ caught and held every ounce of wind

possible. She was shooting along, splashing through the waves with a

lift of her nose that shook her from stem to stern.

"Hold on to what?" cried the Colorado lad, grabbing the edge of the

centerboard well. "She's pitching like a wild bronco!"

"Stick to the saddle," chuckled Pewee. "You should like this."

"I do--like fun!" grumbled Cloudman. "Spilled my kettle of hot water.

How can I wash greasy pans without hot water?"

"Let 'em stay greasy till the next meal. Then they're all ready to use

again," Red suggested.

"We ought to have a dog," Peewee declared.

"What for?"

"Like the lazy woman's dog. She called it 'Three Waters' and when folks

asked her if her dishes were washed clean, she always said, 'Just as

clean as Three Waters can make them.'"

"That's an awful chestnut," Red said. "We'll have no such housekeeping

as that. Better let 'em stay greasy."

Meanwhile the _Spoondrift_ was tearing through the jumping waves, with

the wind in the most favorable quarter. The strength of the wind was

increasing, too, and the _Spoondrift_ was distinctly a heavy-weather

craft.

In saving her from being "cross-bowed" by her handsome rival, Kingdon

had lost a bit on the length of that leg. Now the _Spoondrift_ rushed

down toward the opening of the channel like a steam tug. As the other

sailing craft was about to tack, the Walcott Hall boys crossed the

stranger's bows.

So near were the two catboats that a biscuit might have been tossed from

one to the other. No biscuits were tossed, but certain chaff was.

"Oh, you lubbers!" shouted a young fellow in a yachting cap, rising upon

the forward deck of the strange catboat, and hanging to a stay for

support. "Some sailors! Where are you from? What cart is that?"

There seemed to be half a dozen persons aboard the hailing craft, all

young fellows. Kingdon answered the laughing challenge:

"_Spoondrift_, from Storm Island; Kingdon, skipper; bound in. What

boat's that?"

"_Nothing To It_, Blackport Boat Club. My name's Yansey. Will see you

fellows later. Some tub you got there."

"Tub!" flung back Peewee. "Like your nerve! We've got her entered for

the International Cup Races."

"Sure you have. Tea cup races, you mean," gibed the other. "Come, now,

get that old catamaran out of our way, so we don't fall over her. We're

going to tack."

"Look like a lively lot," Red Phillips remarked as the _Spoondrift_

pulled ahead and got into the choppy channel.

"Blackport Boat Club boys. We ought to know them," Kingdon agreed. "I

understand they've set up a fancy eight-oared shell, too. That's where

we are weak, fellows."

"Where?" Midkiff asked.

"Rowing. Walcott Hall should pull as good an oar as any prep. school in

the East. What do we do?"

"It's what the other schools have always done to us, not what _we_ do,"

sighed Red Phillips.

"Why is that?" demanded Cloudman, who knew little about boating of any

kind.

"We never seem to develop good rowing material," Midkiff said.

"Don't go after it," Kingdon rejoined, with vigor. "Not as we do after

football and baseball timber."

"Ain't that the truth?" drawled Peewee. "I'd like to see Old Hall set

up a good eight-oared boat--I'd be cox."

"You're the right size--below your ears," said Red.

"If we had a shell," began Kingdon.

"Where? Here?" Midkiff demanded.

"Yes. Why not? Plenty of quiet water in that sound."

"But there aren't eight of us," squealed Peewee.

"More than eight on the island," Kingdon returned with a sudden grin.

"Jumping jacks!" Red exclaimed. "He's raving again. Thinks he can work

those loafers over there on Storm Island into rowing material. Going to

make a Christy Mathewson out o' that Horrors kid, too."

"Like fun he will!" said Cloudman, mockingly.

"What's the matter--jealous, Eat-'em-alive Jack?" drawled Kingdon.

"Don't be narrow--don't! If we could put in some practice this

summer----"

"Get up a crew and race these Blackport fellows, I suppose?" Midkiff

asked, scowling.

"Your supposing is good, Jawn," observed Kingdom, shifting the tiller

just a little so as to ship the cap of a wave that came inboard with a

mighty splash and broke up the group of critics forward of the

centerboard.

The _Spoondrift_ kept well ahead of the _Nothing To It_ through the

channel. It was a fine day, and there were plenty of small sailing

craft, as well as motorboats, astir on the ample bosom of Blackport

Cove.

To the westward, toward the Beaches, was the anchorage of the Boat Club,

where, if any inshore gale did hit them, the small fry would find no

rocks to go ashore on.

The _Nothing To It_ wended her way to these moorings; the _Spoondrift_,

with reefed sail, loafed in to a dock near the middle of the

water-front.

Rex and Midkiff went up to a machine shop for the new engine parts and

needed repairs. On their way back to the dock, the big fellow again

tried to reason with his roommate.

"Why not send a letter while we're here to the Manatee Company, and tell

them how the permit was lost?" he begged. "They'd give us another,

wouldn't they? That Enos Quibb will be coming around again--and he

isn't going to be put off so easy a second time. You can see that."

"Beautiful day, Midkiff," Kingdon observed, his head in the air.

"Don't you hear what I say?"

"We're going to have some job beating back against this wind--if she

doesn't change."

"Hang it all, Rex! Come on! Take a fool's advice----"

"No, Jawn; I'm foolish enough myself. Why load up with an overstock of

the same goods?"

"Hang it all!" ejaculated Midkiff again.

"Do, Jawn," Kingdon advised mildly. "Hang it all up--and forget it."

"You'd try the patience of a saint!"

"Don't know. Never knew one personally. You don't claim to have been

canonized, do you, Jawn?"

Midkiff flung up his hands and fell silent.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*AN OFF-SHORE BLOW.*

Before the two friends reached the dock an automobile drove across their

path. There were several men in it, but Midkiff did not give the party

any attention--being in a retrospective state of mind--until one of the

men hailed Kingdon jovially.

"Ahoy, Rex! 'Ullo, boy! How's Rex Kingdon?"

The curly-haired lad looked up, with a smile, and waved his hand in

response to the greeting as the automobile whisked away.

"Who's that?" Midkiff asked.

"Ahem!" coughed Kingdon, a twinkle in his eye. "A man who knows my

father."

"Humph! He seemed to know your father's son, too," said the dark

fellow, and then forgot the incident.

But there was somebody within sight and hearing of the occurrence who

was not likely to forget it. The two Walcott Hall boys, however, went

on down to the dock without marking the presence of this curious

individual.

The fellow, who had said his name was Yansey, skipper of the _Nothing To

It_, was sitting on the stringpiece of the wharf, swinging his legs and

chaffing with the trio aboard the _Spoondrift_.

He was a smart-looking, cheerful lad, with the spirit of a sparrow--a

friendly soul who even made Midkiff warm toward him. He hailed the

latter and Rex as though he was an old friend.

"Say," he began on the blond chap, "I hear your name is Rex Kingdon?"

"Who told you so much?"

"These chaps here in the tub."

"Of course. They are devoted to the unadorned truth," said Kingdon

whimsically. "You know, Old Till wants a chair of Truth endowed at

Walcott Hall."

"Maybe he feels the need of one there?" suggested Yansey cheerfully.

"Don't be so dazzling! What have you come over here for--to try to get

our angoras because you couldn't beat us out with that old log of wood

you were attempting to sail?"

"Came because I fell in love with you all at first glance," returned

Yansey, grinning up at the curly-haired lad. "Bet you can't say that of

me."

"Your crew look like good sports," said Rex. "Come aboard?"

"Yes. If you'll sail me over to the clubhouse. I came on purpose for

you fellows," explained Yansey. "It's almost lunch time, and we want

you to eat with us. Got a darkey for a cook, and he makes a fine

chowder--and apple pie! My eye!"

"Home made apple pie? Say not so!" croaked Red Phillips. "You make my

mouth water like a hydrant."

"You can stuff yourself," assured Yansey. "What say?"

"Is this just a polite invitation, or is it a dare?" asked Kingdon.

"Dare you to come!" laughed Yansey, hopping down into the _Spoondrift_.

"We never take a dare," responded Kingdon.

"Never!" was the chorus from the other Walcott Hall lads.

"But you don't know what you are getting that darkey cook in for,"

Cloudman warned. "We haven't had a square meal since we left Boston."

The wind was shifting and unsteady as they sailed across the broad cove.

"Hope it comes into the right quarter for us to get back easy on,"

Kingdon observed.

"Think we're in for a spell of weather?" Red asked Yansey, who was

Blackport born and seemed to be weather wise.

"Shouldn't wonder. Though we don't often have anything out of the

no'theast this time of year. Just the same, there's been bad wrecks

along the coast in June. They keep the life-savers on the job through

this month nowadays."

None of the visitors thought of the weather, however, when once they

were ashore at the boathouse. It seemed to be a club including all ages

and the owners of all manner of craft. But the youngsters had it to

themselves just now, as it was too early in the season for their fathers

to get away save on Saturdays.

The visitors looked over several of the better-sailing craft while

dinner was preparing. Kingdon took up the eight-oared shell question

with Yansey, and learned that in August there was always a race with two

other boat clubs, and that the Blackport eight considered themselves to

be a little the best oarsmen anywhere along the Maine coast.

"To be real modest," Yansey grinned, "there's nothing to it for the

other eights. We've got the race cinched already."

"Modesty adorns you," Kingdon told him. "I can see that. Also, why you

chose that name for your catboat, too."

"Right! There's nothing to it!" proclaimed the optimistic Yansey.

"We've got a new shell, and we keep her greased. Wait till you see us

out practicing some day. I'm stroke."

"What did you do with your old shell?" Kingdon asked, reflectively.

"It's for sale over yonder at the boat builder's. Good boat, too, though

battered some. Come and see our new one."

Kingdon went, and said nothing more about the thought that had become

fixed in his mind regarding the eight-oared shell race.

The Walcott Hall boys had a good time at the boat club; but they were

delayed in getting away, and when the _Spoondrift_ ran down toward the

Channel it was plain the wind had come around into the north and was

blowing strongly. The sea outside was streaked with foam over the caps

of the jumping waves.

"Guess your old wind's changed, all right," grumbled Peewee.

"We won't have to beat up against it _all_ the way back to the island,"

Rex responded with cheerfulness. "Keep up hope, infant. All is not

lost."

"I don't want to lose everything," said Cloudman as the cat began to

pitch in the choppy sea. "That apple pie was too good to waste."

"Stop that talk!" groaned Peewee, his hand upon his stomach.

Cloudman really suffered from seasickness before they got out into open

sea. There the waves were less choppy, and the _Spoondrift_ rode them

like a seafowl. It was easier on all hands.

But the wind increased in strength, and to beat up into the sound--which

was all a-streak with foam and very blusterous to look upon--was really

more of an undertaking than Kingdon cared to tackle.

"We can do it all right. She's safe enough," Rex said to Midkiff. "But

it will make rough going, Jawn--awful rough. These lubbers will be set

on their ears."

"Never mind them. They'll feel better after it's all over."

"Unfeeling words, old boy. That's a narrow breach into our little cove

where the camp is. Believe I'll go t'other side of the island."

"To the seaward side?"

"Right. The island will break the wind. I noticed one good anchorage,

at least, over there. We can make it easily with the wind like this."

"You're the doctor," said Midkiff. "I suppose you know what you are

about once in a blue moon."

"Your confidence in me almost brings the tears to my eyes. Shake a reef

out of that sail, Jawn. We're going to run down wind for a long lap."

With this change in the sailing of the _Spoondrift_, Applejack and

Peewee felt greatly relieved. With the wind practically astern, the

catboat was less acrobatic in her motions. But when the high eastern

point of the island began to draw in on their port quarter, the other

fellows wanted to know where they were bound.

"What're you aiming to do, King?" asked Red Phillips. "Sail us clear

over to Spain? You're heading that way."

"Get out your Spanish phrase book, and learn to speak the language with

a pleasant accent," advised Kingdon, "if you think we're likely to reach

that coast. Forewarned is forearmed."

"What do you mean, 'four-armed'?" grinned Red. "Think I am an

_anthropoidean quadrumanous_ animal? Isn't that a good one? I learned

it by heart after Old Yad suggested I might be one on occasion."

"I'd have had him arrested," Cloudman said, weakly. "Didn't know Yad

could talk so mean to a fellow."

It was growing late when the catboat swung into the smoother patch of

ocean south of the island. On their left, the surf roared far up the

rocks and narrow beaches, and the swell, forerunning a storm, was quite

apparent. The boat sailed on more even keel.

Kingdon pointed her for the sheltered gulf that indented the island

coastline, which he had noticed when they battled with the squall the

day they had reached Storm Island.

"We'll have to stay aboard all night, I suppose?" Cloudman groaned.

"Oh, boy! _Terra firma_ for mine as soon as possible!"

"We might as well stay on the boat," Midkiff said. "No knowing what

those other fellows have done to our camp."

"Cheerful, aren't you, Jawn?" chuckled Kingdon.

At that moment Peewee Hicks seemed suddenly to have a brainstorm. He

had crept forward and was standing, hanging to a stay, looking off at

the tumbling sea east of the island. Now he began to dance and yell.

"Come down out of that!" ordered Red Phillips. "What are you--going

crazy? That's no place to be fox-trotting."

"Look there! See 'em! There's going to be a mess now."

"What do you mean?" questioned Red, climbing gingerly upon the deck to

get a glimpse of what Peewee evidently saw.

The bulging sail shut out Rex Kingdon's vision. He called to know the

cause of the disturbance. Red Phillips turned a perfectly pallid

countenance to the stern, shouting:

"Canoes! Blown off shore, I guess. Two fellows in each, Rex. What

will we do about it?"

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*"THE HAPPY FAMILY."*

"It's that Horrors kid and his chums," Cloudman cried. "They're in for

it, I reckon!"

"They're _out_ for it, you mean," Midkiff said.

"What can we do?" wailed the dancing Peewee. "They're trying to paddle

back to the island."

"Right into the eye of the wind," said Phillips, who now had a good view

of the two canoes.

"They'll be drowned!" declared little Hicks.

"Easy there, Midget," Kingdon requested. "Don't weep yet. Steady, you

fellows. I'm going to wear ship. Give me the course, Red."

"You're sure not going to run down to them, Kingdon?" questioned

Cloudman.

It looked dangerous to him. Even Midkiff said:

"Better look before you leap, Rex."

"Pshaw! As our Blackport friend says, 'There's nothing to it!' We can

reach 'em all right--without shipping a capful of water."

"Yes," Midkiff muttered. "But can we get back to the island again?"

Kingdon did not answer that question. He knew he had a sound craft

under him. A catboat of merely the _Spoondrift's_ length has run many a

mile out to sea and lived through an offshore gale; but it wasn't a

chance he fancied, and Kingdon fully felt the responsibility of taking

the risk. Nevertheless, he could not think of letting those other

fellows drown.

Drown they might unless they received immediate aid. Under the lift of

the boom, Rex caught a glimpse of the two canoes. One fellow in each

was paddling madly while his companion was bailing out the water shipped

from the curling top of every wave.

It was a bad outlook for Horace Pence and his friends. Undoubtedly they

had been fishing off the eastern point of Storm Island when the wind

shifted. If that was so, then for nearly two hours the boys had been

battling to get back to safety.

"Careless goats," Kingdon said to Midkiff, who stood beside him. "They

ought never to have brought such dinky craft out here. Canoes are all

right in the sound when it's quiet; but to try to manage a canoe out

here, with the surf running the way it does on this south shore of Storm

Island, is craziness."

"Guess they know all that now," grunted Midkiff.

"True for you, Jawn. Stand by to give them a hand. Save the canoes if

you can. I've got to run her in between the two, and you and Red will

each have to handle one of the cockleshells."

"Cockleshells. Now you've said a bushel, Rex," Midkiff rejoined.

"Those fellows ought to be at home sailing chips on a puddle."

"They're putting up a plucky fight, just the same," Kingdon said,

peering ahead. "Take your place. Speak to Red. Stand by the sheet to

lower!" he bellowed.

"Aye, aye, skipper!" Phillips shouted back.

"Come aft here, Peewee, and help Cloudman pull 'em over the side. Keep

your wits about you, Applejack."

"Oh, thank ye!" grunted the boy from the West. "I didn't spill them

back there in that choppy channel."

Carried on by her own momentum, the _Spoondrift_ shot in between the two

canoes. The struggling boys paddling at the moment--Pence in one canoe

and Pudge MacComber in the other--might have ceased their work, seeing

the catboat so near, had not Kingdon shouted:

"Keep it up, you fellows! Stick to the paddle. We've got to snake those

other fellows inboard first."

Cloudman and Peewee each seized their man, while Red and Midkiff, lying

precariously themselves on the decked over portion of the catboat, got a

grip on the gunwales of the canoes.

Ben Comas and Kirby were hauled into the cockpit; but each canoe shipped

so much water it began to sink.

Pudge was frankly crying; but he tried to balance his boat and use the

paddle on the starboard side. Pence's countenance wore its usual

sneering smile. His black eyes flashed and his glance did not quail in

the least.

"Awfully decent of you, Kingdon," he shouted. "Try to save the canoes,

if you can."

"Scramble aboard!" commanded the skipper of the _Spoondrift_. "Never

mind the canoes."

But Midkiff and Phillips did their part nobly. They hung onto the

sinking craft until Horace Pence and Harry Kirby could aid in dragging

both upon the deck of the catboat.

"Lash 'em there," commanded Kingdon. "Give us more sail. We've got to

make headway against this breeze."

He had brought the _Spoondrift_ into the eye of the wind and, when a

reef was shaken out, the sail got the breeze on such a slant that she

staggered and rolled like a drunken man.

"Oh, Rex!" squealed the frightened Peewee. "You'll have us turned

turtle!"

"Don't worry, infant," responded Kingdon. "You couldn't tip this old

girl over. She's as safe as a house."

The plunging of the catboat made them all hang on for dear life. Pudge

had stopped crying, and he showed a courage far superior to that of his

cousin. Deathly pale, Ben Comas was accusing Horace of having dragged

them all into this perilous adventure.

That Pence had elements of the right stuff in him was proved by what he

said in return: "You keep that to yourself, Comas, or I'll chuck you

over the side. Thank Kingdon and his friends--as I do. We'd all been

by-low in a few moments if it weren't for them."

"Huh!" grunted Ben. "What chance have we now?"

"If we are to drown we'll go down with these fellows who have done their

best to save us," Pence put in curtly. "Don't forget that. Let's be

decent--or, as decent as we can be--if we really have got to drown."

Kingdon smiled at the black-browed fellow.

"You're improving, Horrors," he said. "But we're not going to be

swamped. We'll pull through all right."

"You'll never get us safely around to the other side of the island with

the wind this way," Kirby shouted.

"Am not going to try," retorted Kingdon, shrugging his shoulders. "But

we'll be all right--in time."

"Yes we will!" sneered Ben Comas.

"Drop that, or I'll punch you!" threatened Horace Pence, edging over

toward the coward.

"Nice crowd, aren't they?" said Red Phillips, happening to be near

Kingdon. "They must get along fine together in that camp up there.

Regular happy family, such as you see in the sideshows--what?"

Kingdon laughed and shook the damp hair out of his eyes, for the spray

had wet them all pretty thoroughly. Their oilskins had saved the

Walcott Hall boys; but the canoeists were saturated above their waists.

"I'd feel better if I co-could get dry," chattered Pudge.

"So say we all of us, Fatty," Cloudman told him. "But no use trying to

light the oilstove below. Might set the cabin afire."

"Don't take any favors from 'em, Pudge," ordered Ben in his nastiest

way.

"Why don't you get out and walk," demanded Peewee hotly, "if you don't

want to accept any favors? You're a fine chap--I don't think."

"Close up, infant," commanded Kingdon, hearing this. "Try to be

hospitable."

"Hospitable!" muttered Hicks. "They've been so nice to us--stealing

that permit and trying to get us put off the island----"

Horace Pence actually grinned at this. "You must have put it all over

Enos Quibb," he said in his drawling way. "How did you do it? Gratitude

for saving him from a watery grave, no doubt?"

"If he showed gratitude, it's more than somebody else," snapped Midkiff,

boiling over.

"You're the fellow they call Grouch, aren't you?" Horace asked, still

smiling. "Name seems to fit."

Kingdon interfered before the slow Midkiff could get back at his

tormentor.

"Let them rave, Midkiff," the skipper said. "They got the best of us the

other day. We have to admit it. But the affair isn't over yet."

"We got the permit just the same," laughed Horace openly.

"We'd ought to take it away from them," put in Red Phillips, inclined to

feel as Midkiff did.

"Remember they are our guests," drawled Kingdon. "Hands off. We must

put them ashore in safety. After that----"

If the truth were told at that moment, Rex would gladly have gone to a

clinch with the sneering Pence. There was something about the crass

ingratitude of the cheeky fellow that made it hard for Kingdon to

restrain himself. Pence and his crew were unbeaten cubs.

But Rex gave his first, and very earnest attention to the sailing of the

_Spoondrift_. She staggered along for an hour, making very heavy

weather, and very short legs in her tacking, but finally, the eastern

head of Storm Island began to break the wind.

"We're pulling out of it," Red shrieked in Kingdon's ear, for the roar

of the nearby surf was now almost deafening.

"By the way," Rex asked of Kirby, "where's your Indian friend?"

"He didn't come out with us."

"Oh! I fancied he might have been drowned. That would have been a sad

calamity. I think he has it in for me."

"Maybe he has," Ben said, overhearing this conversation. "But he

doesn't dislike you any more than the rest of us do."

"Aw, Ben!" said Pudge MacComber, "I'm sure _I'm_ grateful to Mr. Kingdon

and his friends. He may not believe it----"

"Oh, I do," Rex interrupted, sweetly. "But don't lay it on too thick.

I begin to feel slight symptoms of _mal de mere_. A little of the kind

of gratitude you fellows feel goes a long way with me."

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*MORE OF MR. QUIBB.*

"Lower away!" shouted Rex, as he put the nose of the _Spoondrift_ into

the passage between the two charging files of breakers. In a moment, it

seemed, the catboat drifted on the heaving but quiet bosom of the small

cove.

Rex Kingdon dealt in melodrama; no doubt of that. He liked to do things

to startle his comrades. But they were not always chance things done on

the spur of the moment. More often he shrewdly molded circumstances to

lead up to his most startling successes. He had had both his friends

and "The Happy Family," as Red had named their guests, speculating

during these last few minutes. It had looked as though the old

_Spoondrift_ could not possibly be brought into this haven in safety.

"By George!" Horace Pence unwillingly said. "You're some pilot, you

are!"

"Me!" Rex returned lightly. "If I'd sailed with Columbus, we'd landed

at New York, not at a little picayune island down in the West Indies."

"Well, we'll be getting our canoes over and going ashore, I guess,"

Horace said in rather an embarrassed tone for him.

"So long," returned Kingdon carelessly. "Come up and give me another

look at that fast ball of yours to-morrow."

"Perhaps," said the black-eyed fellow, non-committally.

The four went ashore. The Walcott Hall boys saw Joe Bootleg meet them

at the edge of the water with a lantern. He had evidently been aware of

their peril, and from the headland had watched the _Spoondrift_ making

her anchorage.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," muttered Red Phillips.

"All but the fat chap," Peewee observed. "He isn't such a bad sort."

"Most onery crowd of coyotes I ever saw," Cloudman acclaimed with force.

"Forget it!" advised Rex, with more tartness than he usually displayed.

"Not worth talking about."

"Those chaps from the other camp have really gotten under his hide at

last," Peewee whispered to Red.

They spent the night in some comfort. The summer wind-storm blew itself

out before midnight, and in the morning they were able to sail around to

the little cove below their camp. Nothing had been disturbed there.

They found the tent-fly laced down as they had left it.

Kingdon insisted on taking his two pitchers to the top of the island for

practice in the afternoon. Neither Horace Pence nor any of his chums

appeared. The Walcott Hall boys caught only distant glimpses of the

other campers-out during the day.

The morning following Kingdon was too busy with Midkiff, tinkering with

the engine of the _Spoondrift_, to bother about the rival campers. The

other Walcott Hall boys went fishing off the rocks in the still water,

and caught a mess of cunners that made a nice change from the usual cod,

or flounders.

"Never knew there were so many kinds of fish," Cloudman admitted.

"Always thought, till I came East, that fish was just _fish_. All

tasted the same. But even those squirmy eels taste better than Texas

venison."

"What's Texas venison?" questioned Phillips.

"Jackrabbits," Applejack replied, grinning.

"Fellers in N'York, they tell me, pay a dollar a pair for them. They

kill 'em in big drives in Texas, and use flivvers instead of ponies to

run 'em. Then they cold storage the jacks and push 'em up to the

Eastern market. All they are worth in Texas is a bad word; and a dollar

a pair in the effete East. Some dish, jackrabbit stew--if a feller has

good teeth."

Pudge MacComber came over to the Walcott Hall camp about dark, to borrow

a hatchet. He seemed rather embarrassed about asking for it, his

cousin's insistence evidently having been all that brought him.

"We've mislaid ours somewhere," he confessed. "We've got to cut some

more firewood and a few tent pegs. The wind, the other day, pretty near

blew our tents away."

"You're welcome to the hatchet," Kingdon said. "Thought you had a

fellow with you who knew all about camping--and was cookee, too?"

"That Injun," Cloudman put in.

"He's a good deal of a frost," admitted Pudge. "He's lazy. Won't work

any more than he can help. And his cooking!" The fat youth sighed,

shaking his head mournfully. "I know I'm going to reduce all right if

we stay on Storm Island. I do all the work and haven't had a square meal

once since we landed."

"You're looking bad. I noticed that when you came along," Red Phillips

said with commiseration. "You tottered. I bet you've lost half a

pound."

"Oh, you can laugh----"

"No laughing matter," said the lean Cloudman, "to lose flesh. I lost

some once, and it made me lopsided. Got thrown from my pony and scraped

off some thigh meat against a rock, on one leg. Walked with a list to

starboard, as you mariners would say, for a couple of weeks."

"I wouldn't care to lose flesh that way," Pudge said. "When I'm not fat

I don't feel so well. I begin to get weak and all run down----"

"So that you don't cast a shadow, I s'pose?" suggested Peewee.

"Oh, I guess I always cast more of a shadow than you do, little feller,"

Pudge told him, to the amusement of the others.

"But if you get thin, I suppose you are afraid of losing your right

proportions," Kingdon chimed in gravely. "You know, a fellow hates to

lose his shape."

"According to what kind of a shape he's got," muttered Peewee.

"Why, the rules for perfect pulchritude are easily remembered," the

curly-haired youth said with serious mien. "You know, 'Twice around the

thumb, once around the wrist; twice around the wrist, once around the

neck; twice around the neck, once around the waist'----"

"And in this fellow's case twice around the waist, once around the 'big

top' at a circus, I s'pose?" put in Red. "Just about."

"Oh," said Pudge, mildly, "you fellows can poke fun if you like. I

don't mind. I'm used to it anyway. I'd rather be fat than

uncomfortable. Besides, after what you fellers did for us the other

day----"

"Now don't get maudlin," begged Kingdon quickly. "The least said the

soonest mended. We had to save you from a watery grave! We're not proud

of it."

This rather closed Pudge up, and he mournfully went away. Midkiff said

with scorn:

"They must be having a nice time over at that camp! They don't open

their tent-flies before nine o'clock. Sleep away the best of the day.

Then they lay around and squabble most of the time, I s'pose."

"Don't let their behavior worry you, Grouch," Red advised. "You haven't

got to play father confessor to that bunch."

"I'd like to give 'em penance, all right," growled Midkiff. "What they

need is a rattling good shaking up. Being half an ace from drowning the

other afternoon wasn't enough."

It looked, the next forenoon, as though the "shaking up" was about to

come to the first party of campers on Storm Island. Kingdon and his

mates had got the engine of the catboat into running order, and were

just about to try her out, when the sound of another motor approaching

brought them all up standing. Motor crafts, thus far, had not been very

plentiful in the sound.

"See who's coming to be in our midst again," invited Peewee. "It's the

jolly constable."

"Now we're in for it!" predicted Midkiff, looking solemnly at Rex.

The latter seemed the least disturbed of any of them. Indeed, he smiled

quietly and went about preparing for the trial of the catboat.

"Is he coming here?" queried Cloudman after a minute.

"Not first, I guess," said Red, who was likewise pretty solemn. "But

he'll be here all right. He's going over to take another squint at that

permit, I s'pose. If you had only let us get that paper away from those

fellows, Rex----"

"Never mind the ifs and ands, Red," said Rex. "Let's go over there and

see what happens."

"He's got something in reserve," declared Peewee.

"I believe he has," muttered Red.

Kingdon went about his business, without further word. In a minute or

two their own engine was going, and soon the _Spoondrift_ moved easily

out of the cove. By that time Enos Quibb's motorboat was almost at the

landing where the two canoes lay.

The Walcott Hall boys could see that the fellows at the other camp had

been rounded up by the excitable Pudge. They were all at the landing

when Enos Quibb shut off his engine and stepped forward to make fast a

line. Joe Bootleg remained in the background; but even he, it seemed,

was more than usually interested.

The boys aboard the catboat could not hear what first was said by the

constable, but they heard Horace Pence laugh his sneering, musical

laugh, and reply:

"You're going to have some job proving that, aren't you, Mr. Quibb? We

have the permit----"

"Then, by gum," the excited constable shouted, "you stole it! That's

what you did. You ain't got no right to it."

"You'd better try to prove that, Enos," Horace said, still laughing.

"I'm a-goin' to," cried Quibb. "I'm a-goin' to take you fellers--all of

ye--over to Squire Lowder's, an' let him decide this business. No

school of tomcods like yeou, is goin' to fool Enos Quibb right along.

No, sir!"

*CHAPTER XX.*

*KINGDON'S SURPRISING MOVE.*

The catboat's engine was suddenly shut off, and then there was no sound

from the water to break the silence that had fallen on the group ashore.

Before anybody aboard the _Spoondrift_ could speak, Kingdon gestured for

silence.

"All right," muttered Red. "I'm willing to get it from here."

Down from the bank above the mooring place came the voice of Horace

Pence, cool as ever. Kingdon, who had begun to consider the fellow's bad

qualities as uppermost, again felt a thrill of admiration for him.

"Now, Quibb, you know very well you can't do that," Horace was saying

soothingly, but with restrained laughter in his voice. "Why bother to

try and frighten us?"

"I'll show you----"

"You'll show us nothing but warrants for our arrest," retorted Pence.

"You know that's the best you can do--summons us to court. If you think

we have been trespassing here, that's your limit. You can't scare us a

little bit."

"Oh, I can't, hey?" blustered Enos.

"No. Remember we have shown you the permit from the Manatee Lumber

Company."

"I know all about that," said Enos, his lean jaws seeming to bite off

the tart words. "But 'tain't yours. You stole it--or somethin'. I

know you ain't that Kingdon feller, now. That's flat."

"You know a lot," said Pence. But, before speaking, he had hesitated

just an instant. His black eyes had glanced downward and marked the

catboat under the bank, and the listening party in her. For that

instant, indeed, his gaze fell on Rex Kingdon's face. The latter had

smiled suddenly.

"You know a lot," repeated Horace Pence.

"I got you foul, young feller," said Enos, evidently happy to say so.

His pale eyes gleamed; his freckled face was roseate; he showed all the

venom of the shallow mind and vindictive nature. "You pack up--all five

of ye--an' git off Storm Island. I'm giving you a chance, when I might

have got warrants and pulled ye."

"Say not so!" begged Pence. "You wouldn't really arrest us, Mr. Quibb?"

"Wouldn't I?" returned the constable. "I wish I'd gone to Squire Lowder

fust-off and got the warrants. No use doing sech fellers a decent turn.

I dunno but I could get ye for false pretenses, takin' another feller's

name the way you did."

"I didn't take the name!" cooed Pence. "You gave it to me."

"You showed me that permit, and acted like it was yourn."

"And isn't it?" chuckled the black-eyed fellow.

"Not by a long chalk!" cried Enos. "I know who Rex Kingdon is now." He

turned and pointed to the catboat. "There he is--that curly-haired chap

that thinks himself almost as funny as you be. I l'arned who he was

t'other day when he was over to Blackport gettin' fixin's for that

engine. I heard Val Spear--he's treasurer of the Manatee Company--call

him Rex Kingdon right on the street. You ain't him, an' you ain't got

no right to that permit."

For the instant Horace Pence seemed to have no reply ready, although he

was quite at ease. His friends were flustered and terrified.

"There! What did I tell you?" the Walcott Hall boys heard Ben Comas

say.

"Nice mess you've got us into," whined Pudge.

"The game's up," said Kirby, rather stolidly.

Kingdon made a sign to his friends, and they gathered close about him in

the stern of the catboat, which was drifting in nearer to the shore.

"Fellows, I'm about to play the trump," he said, his eyes laughing but

his lips grave. "Are you with me?"

"What do you mean, Rex?" demanded Midkiff suspiciously.

But Phillips said promptly: "We're always with you, Blue-Eyes. Go to

it."

"It's some foolishness," began Midkiff again. But Peewee whispered:

"Put on the muffler, Grouch, and let him have his way. King's always

good fun, no matter what he does."

"What's on your mind, Rex?" asked Cloudman, his curiosity also aroused.

"Yes, what are you going to do, pitch in and help Enos clean up the

bunch?" asked Red, hopefulness in his tone. "That would have my

approval."

"I'll give you another guess," laughed Rex. "I've a plan that beats

thrashing that crowd, much as they deserve it."

"Unfold it to us," urged Midkiff, still in doubt, "if it's anything

sensible."

"Bide a wee," restrained Rex. "You've got to back me up. No balking."

"Confound it!" exclaimed Cloudman, "you haven't told us your scheme."

"No time to discuss it," said Kingdon. "You've got to take my plan on

trust."

"Now I know it's something foolish," declared John Midkiff.

The nose of the catboat rubbed against the beach, and Rex was the first

one ashore. "Follow your resourceful leader," he called, laughing over

his shoulder at the gloomy face of Midkiff. "Bring a line ashore, Jawn,

and moor the old girl. We don't want to lose her, now that we've just

got the engine to working like a chawm."

Cool as ever, he led the way up the bank. For the last few moments the

Walcott Hall boys had given no attention to what was being said or done

on the island, but now they saw that Enos had stepped back a pace, and

had his little black billy in his hand. He was threatening:

"You fellers pull up them stakes and begin packin' your stuff, or I'll

crack a few heads. I know what I'm doin'. Squire Lowder'll stand back

of me."

Kingdon came up to the constable, with a good natured smile, and laid a

soothing hand upon his shoulder.

"Why all the disturbance, Mr. Squibb?" he asked. "Don't get overheated

on this sweet and pleasant day----"

"And this bunch of fellows is a sweet and pleasant crowd, I s'pose, Mr.

Kingdon?" snapped Enos. "And my name's Quibb, not Squibb, if you

please."

"Sure, Mr. Fibb. My mistake," said Rex. "What's doing?"

"You know well enough," said the angry Enos. "You helped fool me,

too----"

"Never!" groaned Kingdon. "You know, Mr. Constable, you are a man who

can't be fooled by a parcel of boys. You said so."

"Aw--well. I wasn't _sure_. This chap had that permit from the Manatee

Company."

"Of course," said Kingdon easily. "It didn't matter who showed you the

paper--as long as we had it and you saw it?"

Midkiff uttered a grunt that was almost an ejaculation of pain. "I knew

it!" he growled.

Mr. Quibb was not the most startled by Kingdon's query, however; Horace

Pence almost leaped forward to stare into the smiling visage of the

leader of the Walcott Hall boys.

"What d'ye mean?" snarled the constable. "That these fellers----"

"Certainly, Quibb," Kingdon replied, quite seriously despite his

good-humored look. "You know, it says nothing in the permit about the

number of my party. Those other fellows are my friends; at least, I

call them so. See the love-light in their eyes when they look at me?"

Unable to fathom the bantering lad, Quibb looked a good deal like a fish

out of its element, his mouth open and eyes staring.

"Come hither, Mr. Constable," Rex said, drawing the man beyond earshot

of the others. "Let me bare my heart to you."

"You can't bluff me!"

"Oh, I wouldn't think of trying it! This is no bluff. I'm going to

spill the truth, and nothing but the truth, into your copious ear.

Those fellows did not belong to my party--originally."

"There!" exclaimed the constable, swelling again. "That's what I

knowed. They stole that permit."

"At least, they _have_ it," agreed Kingdon. "But that is not the point.

The permit is issued to 'Rex Kingdon and friends,' but it doesn't say

how many friends. And so, Mr. Cribb----"

"Quibb!" ejaculated the constable.

"Oh, pardon me!" pleaded Rex. "I'm dreadfully forgetful of names, but I

always remember faces--like yours. Now, I want you to be a good fellow.

You'd be almost lovable, really, if you would let your natural kindness

of heart have full play. Say or do nothing to sour the milk of human

kindness that lies----"

"What do you want me to do?" broke in the constable, nettled yet

impressed by Kingdon's airy manner.

"Remember that black-eyed chap jumped into the drink to snatch you from

a watery grave the other day. Be grateful. Let us alone to fight our

own jolly battles. I claim them as my friends now, and therefore you

really have no right to drive them away. What do you say----"

"I say you're the sassiest set of boys I ever see. But it's a fact you

got me out of a pickle," acknowledged the freckled-face constable,

putting away his billy.

"All's well that ends well," quoth Kingdon briskly. "If anybody asks

you, you can tell 'em we've got two camps over here for reasons of our

own. It's nobody's business as long as you are satisfied."

"Sure not. I know I'm right now," said the constable, nodding his head.

"I heard Val Spear speak to you as though he knowed you well."

"Thank you so much!" cried Rex, seizing Enos by the hand and almost

wringing his arm off with enthusiasm. "I knew you were naturally a

broad-minded and generous man. Must you hurry away so soon? I hate to

see you go, but--good day, good day."

The two parties of boys stood waiting and silent until the man had got

aboard his motorboat and started it chugging away from Storm Island.

*CHAPTER XXI.*

*REVENGE.*

"What's the game?" finally asked Horace Pence, when he was sure the

constable was out of hearing.

"Game? No game at all, I assure you," Kingdon answered gravely. "Don't

lend yourself to suspicion, as many do, old chap. By the way, hand over

that permit now, Horrors. It's served its purpose in your hands, I am

sure."

Pence produced the paper without a moment's indecision. But he said:

"I'd rather you didn't think I swiped it out of your jacket pocket,

Kingdon. I fancy it must have slipped out when you threw off your

jacket that day to play ball. Joe Bootleg found it in the grass,

afterward, and brought it to me."

Kingdon looked straight into the black eyes of Horace as he accepted the

permit in its envelope. "I believe you," he said simply, putting it into

his pocket.

Suddenly the coarse voice of Ben Comas broke in:

"All very fine, but I take it we go, just the same, Horrors. 'Twould

have been better if we had got off the island before all this

foolishness happened."

Kingdon laughed at him cheerfully. "Not at all necessary. I don't see

why you should leave, now that things are so comfortable and pleasant

all around."

"What's that?" demanded Pence, plainly startled.

"The island's a cramped place, I know," Kingdon responded, with a

careless wave of his hand. "But it's been more than a little fun rowing

with you fellows. It puts quite a tang into the taste of it all. Hate

to see you chaps move out when there's no necessity for it."

"Listen to that!" ejaculated Red Phillips from the rear.

"So you like a row?" Pence asked Kingdon, having recovered his

self-possession.

"It's better than monotony, though there might be other ways of passing

the time." Saying which, Rex turned his back on Pence and his party and

started for the waterside. "Come on, fellows," he suggested to his

comrades, "let's run across to that fishweir over yonder. I see they're

going to haul the trap."

The five Walcott Hall boys silently boarded the catboat, while Pence and

his comrades watched them, equally silent. When the _Spoondrift_ was

well away from the mooring place of the two canoes, Harry Kirby said:

"What have you got to say about that, Horrors? I don't understand that

Kingdon at all, do you?"

Pence did not reply at once. Ben's harsh voice broke in:

"You fellows make me tired! He's got some scheme to come back at us, of

course. Why shouldn't he? We ought to get out of here."

"Where'll we go?" complained Pudge MacComber, apprehending work before

him.

"Don't ask me." Harry Kirby groaned. "Wish we'd never come."

"We wouldn't if it hadn't been for this crazy Horrors."

"All you can do is growl," flared Kirby, who was Pence's strongest

admirer.

"Give that Kingdon and his crew half a show, and they'll get us into hot

water of some kind," Ben fumed.

"Listen," commanded the black-eyed chap, whose influence over his mates

was by no means dissipated. "I want to know why we should get out of

here at all?"

"But, Horrors," Ben said, "you know they'll do something mean to us."

"You're judging them by what you'd do yourself."

"Didn't they take our canoes in the first place?"

"But they didn't keep them," said Horrors. "That Kingdon is as square a

chap as I ever saw."

"What's that?" exclaimed Kirby. "Have you fallen in love with him?"

"Well, I can't say I hate him just because he is ready to fight, as long

as he fights fair."

"I could lick him, easy," boasted Kirby.

"A lot you could! Ask Joe, here, whether Rex Kingdon's got a hard

fist."

The Indian lad's countenance denoted his feelings on this point.

Although he did not speak, his expression was a threat that none of the

others quite understood.

"Look here," insisted Pence argumentatively, "let's settle this. Why

should we leave Storm Island?"

"For one reason," said Kirby, "because Kingdon can get us put off any

time he feels like it."

"Will he feel like it?"

"Why won't he?" asked Ben Comas.

"He says," returned Pence, "that he likes to have us here to row with,

and why shouldn't we accommodate him? He hasn't got so much the better

of us. We've had just as much fun out of it as he and his crowd have."

"Quibb will be coming around again," prophesied Kirby.

"Don't you believe it. Kingdon has settled that. He'll keep away from

Storm Island. We'll take Rex Kingdon at his word. He says he likes to

fuss with us. Let's give him all the sport in that line he wants."

Joe Bootleg's gloomy face caught the attention of the black-eyed lad.

"You going to stay here, Mr. Pence?" the Indian asked.

"That's my intention, Chief."

"Them fellers stay?" demanded Joe, pointing off at the catboat.

"Sure."

The Indian turned and started into the woods. He carried the camp

hatchet that had been borrowed from the Walcott Hall boys.

"Where you going, Joe?" asked Ben, as Horace gave the fellow no further

attention.

"Chop more firewood," grunted Joe Bootleg.

But he clutched the hatchet handle with a grimness that might have

startled the others had they seen his face. The fire of revengeful

determination burned hotly in Joe Bootleg's heart.

*CHAPTER XXII.*

*THE BOULDER ON THE HILLSIDE.*

The _Spoondrift_ and her crew came back from the fishweir with several

varieties of edible fish that the pondmen had given the boys. They had

a feast that night at the camp, and even Cloudman admitted that, for

once, it was a "square meal."

Midkiff, unlike the others, could not easily forgive Rex and the others

for letting Horace Pence and his friends off so easy.

"You're piling up trouble for yourself and us," he told Kingdon.

"Fellows like those over at that camp would cut your tugs and let the

horse run away any time you weren't looking--and think 'twas fun."

"We'll be looking," laughed Kingdon.

"Yes, we will! That Indian, for instance, could be planning something

against us right now, and we wouldn't know it, would we? He's a

wicked-looking chap, and he hasn't forgotten how you mauled him around

that night in the dark."

"Nor have I forgotten how he mauled me," said Rex, with some feeling.

"My dainty little foot is tender yet. But maybe my upper deck is loaded

with a grand scheme to get even." He finished with a soft laugh.

"Yes it is!" scoffed the gloomy one, with scorn. "I know about the kind

of plans you have in your mind."

Midkiff really admired Kingdon's whole-hearted and friendly way of

settling the matter of the permit and the remaining on the island of the

other campers. Nobody but Rex, it seemed to him, could have done just

that--and done it so well. Furthermore, he had not lingered around to

receive any expressions of gratitude, or to make the chaps with Pence

feel uncomfortable. He had taken his own friends away at once, leaving

the surprised and shame-faced crowd to recover from the jolt his action

had given them.

Midkiff was sure he couldn't have done such a thing himself. Indeed, he

wouldn't have done it under any circumstances. Heaping coals of fire on

the heads of his enemies was not John's way of settling any dispute. He

could fight, or he could argue; but it was not in him to be a

generous--indeed a prodigally generous--enemy. Besides, he did not

believe that it would improve Pence and his friends. He considered them

beneath contempt and incapable of holding a generous sentiment for an

instant.

Kingdon suddenly laughed at him again. "I'm glad I haven't your

suspicious nature, Jawn," he drawled, shrugging his well-built

shoulders.

They went up to the open field in the middle of the island the next

forenoon, and before long Pence and his three white companions strolled

into view. If Ben, Pudge and Kirby felt any embarrassment, and showed

it, not so Horace Pence. He was his usual careless and cheerful self.

Kingdon left it to Pence to make advances, and presently Horace wanted

to try his arm. Kingdon caught for him, never uttering a word of

encouragement or criticism all the time the black-eyed chap was working,

although Pence was using all the speed at his command.

"I say," called Horace at last, "what d'you think of them?"

"You don't want to know what I think, do you?" Kingdon asked quietly.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't," returned the heated Pence.

"I think you're likely to throw your arm out of joint, if you keep on,"

was Kingdon's frank response. "I'd take care if I were you. You don't

put the ball over; you let it fly anywhere, as long as you put steam

behind it."

Pence was unable to hide his chagrin. He flung the ball as far as he

could across the field, and sullenly started back for his camp. But he

slipped on his sweater as he went. He had remembered Kingdon's advice

of the week before.

"He got what he asked for, and didn't like it," Peewee snickered.

"Shows his bringing up!" muttered Cloudman.

"Regular Chesterfield for manners!" chuckled Red Phillips.

Midkiff, too disgusted to speak at all, looked his contempt.

They forgot that it took training of the right kind for a young fellow

to get into the habit of controlling his temper. Kingdon might have

been intentionally aggravating, for he went off whistling in the other

direction, and alone. One could seldom tell whether Rex was perturbed

or not. At least, on this particular occasion he showed no apparent

feeling for Horace Pence.

None of the others followed Rex at the moment, and he slipped into the

woods alone while his mates were picking up the bats and recovering

other articles. He did not care to be questioned just then.

Nevertheless he was smiling. He was wise enough to appreciate how Horace

Pence felt.

Going whistling down the aisles of the wood, but bearing off the usual

route to their camp, Kingdon suddenly came upon something that stopped

him.

"Hul-_lo!_" he murmured, startled if not surprised. "Who's been

chopping down trees?"

The spot was almost directly above their camp. The steep hillside fell

away to the small plateau on which the Walcott Hall boys had set up

their tent. Below that was the cove, with its pebbly, narrow, crescent

beach, and the catboat courtesying to the swell of the water. Kingdon

could get a glimpse of her stick through the trees.

Here, just before him, a goodly sapling had been cut off near the

ground. That, in itself, was an infringement of the rules laid down by

the Manatee Company. Rex had been warned against cutting wood of this

kind for any purpose whatsoever on Storm Island.

"Now, who did this?" muttered the lad again. "Surely none of our

fellows."

His quick eye saw something in the grass, and he hastened to pick it up.

A hatchet, with one side of the blade rusted.

"Our extra hatchet! The one that MacComber fellow borrowed. I'm sure

he didn't return it!"

He went on a little way and saw where the sapling, all of four inches

through at its butt, lay half hidden in the rank weeds and grass. It

seemed that the stick had been cut wantonly, after which the marauder

had tried to hide it.

"I'm sure none of our fellows would have done such a thing. Here's the

hatchet," Kingdon told himself.

He went on a little farther, and came to the opening above the camp.

The forest trees seemed to withdraw on either side and leave a small,

wedge-shaped pasture on the hillside, with the thin edge of the wedge

up-hill. Down the slope, not two hundred yards away, was the tent.

Kingdon's gaze swept the opening in the forest, studying every detail of

the narrow landscape. Suspicion had been bred in his mind. It was more,

an intuition that all was not right.

He walked slowly down the hill, observing several outthrust rocks and

one rounded bowlder directly in his path. Apparently a dog had tried to

dig a woodchuck out from under the upper edge of that bowlder.

Kingdon passed on. Then he turned, startled, and went back to the gray

rock. The thought had flashed through his mind that there were no dogs

on Storm Island!

At least, he had neither seen nor heard a dog since his party had

arrived. A dog had not dug under that bowlder, nor would a groundhog

have left so much loose soil at the mouth of his burrow.

Kingdon stopped and studied the situation. There was a small rock lying

just above the bowlder and about two feet from its uphill edge. This

smaller stone had recently been placed there.

He walked back to the felled sapling at the edge of the wood. Its butt,

freshly cut from the stump, should be white. Instead it was crusted

with earth.

Rex returned down the hill again, and stood for a minute by the great

gray bowlder, testing one hand upon it, thinking. His gaze scrutinized

minutely every foot of the slope below him. Presently, his face frowning

and thoughtful, he sought the path by which he and his mates usually

descended the hillside, and arrived at the camp before the others.

*CHAPTER XXIII.*

*A THREATENING SKY.*

Rex had brought the camp hatchet and placed it where everybody could see

it. None of his fellow-campers spoke of its return. They were all

hungry, and they hurried through dinner, took a nap, and then made for

the sound while the tide was up.

There was a good diving place just east of their cove, and within a few

rods of the spot where the other fellows moored their canoes. When the

Walcott Hall boys arrived at the bathing place the four white youths

from the other camp were already in the water. Joe Bootleg seemed to

have a constitutional objection to water for bathing purposes.

With a driftwood plank they had found, Midkiff and Phillips rigged a

diving-board. The rocks which weighted its shoreward end sometimes

slipped off and "dumped" the diver ingloriously into the deep hole under

the bank, but that merely added to the sport.

Peewee hailed Pudge MacComber, with whom he had struck up something of a

doubtful friendship, and soon four of the other fellows were at the spot

where the Walcott Hall boys bathed.

Pence, a fine swimmer, dove like a shark and stayed under water longer

than anybody in the crowd, save Kingdon himself. The two raced

informally from the diving hole to the canoes and back again, and it

seemed that Pence had a wee bit the better of it.

"You do that Australian crawl fine," Kingdon told the black-eyed chap

frankly.

"That's one thing I do all winter. There's a corking pool in our town

gym., and I don't often miss a day."

"Swimming and rowing are as good all round training stuff as a fellow

can do," Kingdon said. "Gives you wind and what Downs, our coach, calls

stamina. You handle a paddle like a veteran, Pence. How are you with

the oar?"

"So-so," Horace replied languidly. "Had good crews at Belding where I

went for a year. I made Number Two eight."

"Belding?" ejaculated Kingdon. "Did you go to Belding?"

"I went and then I came away again," laughed Pence with that unpleasant

curl of his lip. "Didn't stay long."

"Why not?"

"I rather think my absence was requested because of something regarding

a calf being led into chapel and tied in the pulpit. Had a kind of a

weak-voiced chaplain and the calf helped him out in bellowing."

"Boys will be boys," Kingdon said sadly, "and calves will be calves.

Sometimes it's hard for the faculty to tell 'em apart."

Pence's eyes twinkled with appreciation. "At least, they didn't make

the mistake of rusticating the calf instead of me."

"After that?" quizzed Rex.

"After what?"

"Belding wasn't your last school? Where do you go now?"

"I've finished school. Nothing to it," yawned Pence.

"That reminds me," Kingdon said quickly. "Those fellows sailing the

_Nothing To It_ claim to be the fastest crew in these parts in

eight-oared shell."

"_Nothing To It_?" echoed Pence.

Rex told him about the Blackport Boat Club fellows and their boasting.

"I'd dearly love to get hold of that old boat of theirs, train a bit,

and see how bad they could trim us in a race."

"But you five fellows can't handle an eight-oared shell," the black-eyed

youth said.

"No. But we five, with your four, could. Even Pudge would do as

ballast. Have to work in Hicks as cox."

Pence stared and laughed shortly. "You're a queer fellow," he said.

"Anybody'd think we were bosom friends of yours.'

"Bosom enemies," responded Kingdon. "What's the odds, enemies or

friends? We might work up a good crew and have a little fun with that

_Nothing To It_ crowd."

"You must have sport on the brain, Kingdon," drawled Horace.

"Sure. Clean sport. There's nothing like it. I can have a fine time

with the worst enemy I've got, if he only plays the game--_any_

game--fair."

"Suppose you've got plenty of deadly enemies?" was the other's

rejoinder.

"Got one, I fancy, right in your crowd," Kingdon said, with rather a

meaning inflection to his voice.