Bob and Hal looked at each other. Hal spoke. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” he said, blushing. “I can’t tell stories, I’m sure I can’t.” Captain Bill knew that it would be tactless at that moment to try to convince Hal that he could tell a story. It would only increase the boy’s nervousness, and convince him only more of the fact that he could not spin a yarn. So he said, “Well, we’ll tell ours first, and you can tell yours later. After you hear how bad ours are, you’ll be encouraged.” Then Bill had an idea. “How about having a contest?” he said. “The one who tells the best story gets a prize.” “What prize?” asked Bob quickly. “Now, you take your time. We’ll decide on the prize later. We’ll have to let Pat in on this, too, I suppose, but he’s going to give us some competition. Pat’s a great story teller. I’ll tell my story first. Then Bob can tell his, after he’s had some time for preparation; then Pat will probably want to get his licks in; and Hal will come last. He’ll have the benefit of our mistakes to guide him. How about it?” “All right with me,” said Bob, eagerly. He was keen about the idea. But Hal seemed less enthusiastic. His natural reticence, he felt, would make it torture for him to tell a story. It would be all right just for Bob—and he was even getting well enough acquainted with Captain Bill to tell his story in front of him—but this Pat McDermott—even his name sounded formidable. Captain Bill didn’t give him a chance to say aye, yea, or nay, but went on talking. “I think that we ought to choose subjects that you two know about,” said Bill. “How about stories of the aviators—of Famous Flyers and their Famous Flights?” “Great!” said Bob. “Gee, I want Lindbergh.” “Lindbergh you shall have,” said Captain Bill. “What’s yours Hal?” “I don’t know,” said Hal. “I’ll have to think it over. But—I think that I’d like to take the life of Floyd Bennett—if I may.” “Of course,” said Bill. “I think that I’ll tell about Admiral Byrd—do you think he’d make a good story?” “Marvelous!” said Bob, with his usual enthusiasm. “What’ll we leave for Pat?” “Pat can take whomever he wants to take,” the Captain said. “He’ll have to take what’s left. That’s what he gets for coming late. But what do you say we wait to start the contest when Pat comes?” “Yes, oh, yes, I think that that would be much better,” said Hal, relieved that the ordeal would at least be postponed, even if it could not be avoided altogether. “I think that we ought to wait until Mr. McDermott comes.” The Captain laughed. “Don’t let him hear you call him ‘Mr. McDermott’” he said. “He’s Pat to everybody, and to you, too.” “I’ll try to remember,” said Hal, miserably, thinking of what a complicated world this was. It was still raining outside. The boys and the Captain, seated in the library, or rather, sprawled in the library, could see the streams of rain splash against the windows and run down in little rivers until they splashed off again at the bottom of the pane.