We set there and thought and thought, and by and by I commenced to sight an idee in the offin’. ’Twas hull down at fust, but pretty soon I got it into speakin’ distance, and then I broke it gentle to Jonadab. He grabbed at it like the “Labrador mack’rel” grabbed Stumpton’s hook. We set up and planned until pretty nigh three o’clock, and all the next day we put in our spare time loadin’ provisions and water aboard the _Patience M._ We put grub enough aboard to last a month. Just at daylight the mornin’ after that we knocked at the door of Montague’s bedroom. When he woke up enough to open the door--it took some time, ’cause eatin’ and sleepin’ was his mainstay--we told him that we was plannin’ an early-mornin’ fishin’ trip, and if he wanted to go with the folks he must come down to the landin’ quick. He promised to hurry, and I stayed by the door to see that he didn’t git away. In about ten minutes we had him in the skiff rowin’ off to the _Patience M._ “Where’s the rest of the crowd?” says he, when he stepped aboard. “They’ll be along when we’re ready for ’em,” says I. “You go below there, will you, and stow away the coats and things.” So he crawled into the cabin, and I helped Jonadab git up sail. We intended towin’ the skiff, so I made her fast astern. In ha’f a shake we was under way and headed out of the cove. When that British poet stuck his nose out of the companion we was abreast the p’int. “Hi!” says he, scramblin’ into the cockpit. “What’s this mean?” I was steerin’ and feelin’ toler’ble happy over the way things had worked out. “Nice sailin’ breeze, ain’t it?” says I, smilin’. “Where’s Mau--Miss Stumpton?” he says, wild like. “She’s abed, I cal’late,” says I, “gittin’ her beauty sleep. Why don’t _you_ turn in? Or are you pretty enough now?” He looked fust at me and then at Jonadab, and his face turned a little yellower than usual. “What kind of a game is this?” he asks, brisk. “Where are you goin’?” ’Twas Jonadab that answered. “We’re bound,” says he, “for the Bermudas. It’s a lovely place to spend the winter, they tell me,” he says. That poet never made no remarks. He jumped to the stern and caught hold of the skiff’s pointer. I shoved him out of the way and picked up the boat hook. Jonadab rolled up his shirt sleeves and laid hands on the centerboard stick. “I wouldn’t, if I was you,” says the cap’n. Jonadab weighs pretty close to two hundred, and most of it’s gristle. I’m not quite so much, fur’s tonnage goes, but I ain’t exactly a canary bird. Montague seemed to size things up in a jiffy. He looked at us, then at the sail, and then at the shore out over the stern. “Done!” says he. “Done! And by a couple of ‘come-ons’!” And down he sets on the thwart. “Is there anything to drink aboard this liner?” asks Booth Hank Montague. * * * * *