They had a jolly time there in the water until the sun, settling down above the wooded hills in the west, warned them that it was time to think of dinner. They got out of their dripping suits in the engine room and dressed again in their shore togs. Afterwards they hung their bathing suits over the awning frame and pulled the tender alongside. At that moment the clock struck four bells. “Wait!” cried Dan. “I know! It’s six o’clock!” “Right!” laughed Nelson. From the hotel came a loud booming of a gong or bell. “What’s that?” asked Tom, startled. “Dinner bell at the hotel,” said Nelson. “Sounded like a riot call,” observed Dan. Then they piled into the tender and went ashore, to be ushered, four very sedate and well-behaved young gentlemen, into the dining room. It was all of an hour later when Tom was finally separated from the table and led protestingly back to the porch. “But I wanted some more frozen pudding!” he explained. “Of course you did,” answered Bob soothingly. “But you must remember that we’re only paying for one dinner apiece, Tommy. Don’t bankrupt the hotel right at the beginning of the season.” “Hope you ch-choke!” said Tom. Later they rowed back to the launch over the peaceful cove, which was shot with all sorts of steel-blue and purple lights and shadows. Across the cove Rocky Neck was a blurred promontory of darkness, with here and there a yellow gleam lighting some window and finding reflection in the water below. Seaward, the harbor was still alight with the afterglow, and the lantern at the end of the breakwater showed coldly white in the gathering darkness. It had grown chilly since sunset, and so, after making all fast for the night, the boys went below and closed the doors and hatch behind them. With the lamps going, the cabin soon warmed up. Bob, by request, had brought his mandolin, and now, also by request, he produced it and they had what Nelson called a “sing-song,” Tom alternately attempting bass and soprano, and not meeting with much success at either. Finally Bob tossed the mandolin onto the bunk and said he was going to bed. That apparently casual remark seemed to remind Dan of something, for he suddenly sat up on the edge of the berth and grabbed Tom by the arm. “We haven’t given them our stunt yet, Tommy,” he said. “Eh? What stunt? Oh, yes; that’s so! Come on!” And Tom climbed to his feet. Dan joined him, and they stood very stiffly at attention. “What’s this?” asked Bob. “It’s called—it’s called ‘The Dirge of the Salt Codfish,’” answered Dan soberly. “Are you ready, Tommy?” “All ready.” “Let her go!” Whereupon they began to recite with serious faces and ludicrous lack of vocal expression, illustrating the “dirge” with wooden gestures. “They come in three-pound, five-pound, and ten-pound packages,” chanted the pair, “also in glass jars. A rubber band is placed around the top, the air is forced out by a vacuum machine, and the cover is clamped on. To remove the cover, you puncture the lid!”