Professor Brierly's deeply sunken, bright blue eyes looked with paternal affection at the little figure at his side. The lips under the tip-tilted nose formed, faintly, a pout. It was unusual for Tommy to sit so long beside "Pop" without asking a thousand questions. One of the reasons Tommy liked Professor Brierly so much was that the latter always answered his questions. And the answers were amplified with tricks that were so fascinating. The professor's associates would have been amused as was Matthews' and the boy's mother, at the old man's painful efforts to use short words easy of comprehension. Professor Brierly never made the mistake of treating the boy or his questions lightly. He always gave them serious consideration; he always treated the boy with the grave courtesy due an equal. After the silence had lasted a painfully long time, Professor Brierly asked: "Anything wrong, Thomas?" The old scientist's concession to the amenities did not extend to calling the youngster "Tom" or "Tommy." The little chap nodded. "Yes, Pop, something very wrong, very, VERY wrong." Professor Brierly's features showed appropriately grave concern. "What is it?" "Uncle Jack, he--he--won't let me peddle." "He won't let you what?" "He won't let me peddle, peddle the boat." He pointed a grubby finger toward the canoe that was tied to the small wharf. "Oh, you mean, he won't let you paddle the canoe." "Yes, Pop, he won't let me peddle." "_Paddle_ is the word, Thomas; say paddle." "Peddle." "No, no, Thomas, _paddle_, PADDLE!" "Peddle." Any other person but Thomas would have received an outburst of wrath from the old scientist Professor Brierly again demonstrated his deep love for the boy by abandoning the subject of pronunciation and returned to the major issue. "You say, Thomas, that he won't let you peddle--er--paddle?" Thomas glumly shook his head. "But, Thomas, I cannot understand. I saw him teach you to paddle. He made you a small paddle himself." "Well, he won't let me." "Did John tell you why?" "He just won't let me. He says I can't peddle all alone by myself till I c'n swim'n dive real good. I wanna peddle all alone by myself like them." He pointed to two canoes in the distance, each propelled by a lone figure. "Well, Thomas, can you swim as well as Uncle John?" "Sure, I c'n swim real good, mebbe not so good as Uncle Jack but-I wanna peddle all alone by myself." The crunching of the gravel under heavy steps interrupted the two pals. Big, blond, athletic John Matthews was coming down the embankment that led from the rustic sprawling cabin. "John," said Professor Brierly, gravely, "Thomas here, has a complaint against you." "Zat so?" A huge hand seized the slack of Thomas's shorts and the boy was heaved up to the muscular shoulder. The two faces were now on the same level and twinkling gray blue eyes were looking into grave brown ones. "Did you squeal on Uncle Jack, Tommy?"