It was a lovely morning. Before the gentle breeze the schooner took her leisurely way across Cape Cod bay and in the direction of Barnstable. As he stood on her deck, Hoppy Mayo was a prey to conflicting thoughts. He little dreamed that at the finish of the adventure in which he was an unwilling participant he should occupy a niche in the temple of fame, or that his name should be handed down through the years as that of a man who had not hesitated in the face of fearful odds to match his strategy against the foes of his country and win undying renown by an act of individual daring which has rarely been equaled in our naval annals. No such thought crossed his mind; but, on the contrary, he felt already the opprobrium which would be his lot when history should record the fact that he had aided the enemies of the fatherland. True, he had not abandoned all hope; his keen mind had been at work and he had reasoned it out that there was still a chance left. This chance was a remote one, but stranger things had occurred and fortune might yet favor him. As the schooner crept across the bay, Hoppy’s gaze ranged along the low-lying shores of old Cape Cod. The long stretches of white strand glistened in the sunlight and the tiny hillocks, known as the dunes, seemed to be engaged in a brave effort to raise themselves above the tops of the sea pines and the stunted oaks of the neighboring groves. Billingsgate Point broke the sameness of the coastline and guarded the harbor of Wellfleet, the only important haven south of Provincetown, the other landing-places being small creeks and inlets. The high tide concealed the treacherous flats so much dreaded by the British commander, and the placid surface of the sea revealed no evidence of the dangerous sandbars on which many a heedless mariner had come to grief. Within the encircling arm of the Cape, almost at the point where it abruptly turns northward, the pilot could see his native village of Eastham, and the sight added to his bitterness of soul. Cape Cod towns were then, and, indeed, are at the present day, straggling places altogether different from the old-world idea of a town. They are properly townships, each about six miles in length and, on the lower Cape, from Brewster to Provincetown, the width of each township varies with the Cape itself, being bounded on either side by the ocean and the bay, narrowing from about three miles at Orleans to a good deal less at Truro and Provincetown. There is no crowding of habitations in the villages. Land is cheap and the people believe in plenty of elbow room.