“Well, let’s leave the eggs out of it for the present,” suggested Roy. “Let’s figure on the other things.” “Let’s not,” said Dick, rising. “I’m going home. We’ve got lots of time to figure. Besides, the best way to do is to buy the things and let the groceryman do the figuring. We’ve got to have them, no matter what they cost. What time are we going around to see the Floating Artist?” “Right after breakfast,” answered Chub. “You come up at about ten o’clock--” “What’s the matter with you fellows coming to the hotel and having breakfast with me?” asked Dick. “All right, then, luncheon. I’ll be around at ten in the morning. See if you can at least get him up by that time, Roy.” “With a glance of scathing contempt,” murmured Chub, “our hero turned upon his heel and strode rapidly away into the fast-gathering darkness.” But where he really strode was down the stairs, with one arm over Dick’s shoulder, while Roy brought up the rear and gently prodded them with the toe of his shoe. CHAPTER IV LEASING A HOUSE-BOAT The preceding summer, while camping out on Fox Island--or Harry’s Island, as they called it now--the boys had made the acquaintance of the Floating Artist. He had appeared one day in his house-boat, the _Jolly Roger_, in which he was cruising down the Hudson, sketching as he went. His real name was Forbes Cole, a name of much importance in the art world, as the boys discovered later on. He had proved an agreeable acquaintance, and when camp had been broken the three boys, together with Harry Emery, the daughter of the school principal, had voyaged with him as far as New York. Mr. Cole lived in a rather imposing white stone house within sight of the Park. The entrance was on the level with the sidewalk. Bay-trees in green tubs flanked the door which was guarded by a bronze grilling. The three boys were admitted by a uniformed butler and conducted into a tiny white-and-gold reception-room. As the heavy curtain fell again at the doorway after the retreating servant the visitors gazed at each other with awed surprise. Chub pretended to be fearful of trusting his weight to the slender chairs, and all three were grinning and giggling when the man appeared again, suddenly and noiselessly. Down a marble-tiled hall carpeted with narrow Oriental rugs in dull colors they were led to an elevator. When they were inside, the butler touched a button and the tiny car, white-and-gold like the reception-room, shot up past two floors and stopped, apparently of its own volition, at the third, and the boys emerged to find themselves in a great studio that evidently occupied the whole fourth floor of the house. “Talk about your Arabian Nights!” murmured Chub in Roy’s ear.