“If it wasn’t for the rowlocks being out,” said Dan, “I’d think there’d been an accident. But I guess no one ever went overboard and stopped to take the rowlocks out. What’ll we do with it?” “Tow it over to the island,” answered Bob promptly. “That’s maybe where it belongs. It’s a derelict and we can claim salvage. She’s a fine little boat, isn’t she?” When they worked the canoe up to the tender’s bow the mystery was explained. A few feet of rope, frayed at the end, told the story. “She’s blown away from the landing,” said Dan. “That painter probably sawed itself in two during the night; probably rubbed against the edge of the wharf. We’ll claim the reward if we can find the owner.” So they took the end of the rope aboard and tried to paddle away. They’d probably been there yet had not Nelson and Tom come up presently and lent assistance. A half-filled rowboat is no light tow in a heavy sea, and by the time they had beached it they were all well tired out. After turning the water out of it, and wringing the sweater until it was somewhat drier, they set out on a tour of discovery. There were no habitations in sight from their landing-place, but a few minutes’ walk took them around a corner of the island and brought them in sight of a sumptuous camp building which, planned like a Swiss chalet, stood on a little bluff above the edge of the lake and towered up among the trees. Jutting into the water was a long pier with several craft of different kinds about it, while further out a sixty-foot steam yacht was moored. “Bet you this is the place,” said Tom. “How much we going to ask for reward?” “Nothing,” said Bob. Tom looked disappointed, but the others agreed that they wouldn’t take any money for the rescue of the tender. As they approached a ferocious-looking bull-terrier made a dash at them and barked savagely, only to change his behavior on closer acquaintance and leap about them joyfully. The noise brought one of the inmates of the house to the front door, and he waved greetings to the party and awaited their approach. He was a middle-aged man, rather fussily dressed--as Dan put it--for camp-life, and he held a newspaper in his hand and smoked a pipe. At the steps Bob became spokesman and explained their errand. “A cedar tender named ‘Elf,’ eh?” asked the man. “That’s mine, sure enough. Found her afloat, eh? Well, I’m mightily obliged to you, gentlemen. Come in, come in! Get out of the way there, Pete. Oh, Jack! tell Barry to go around the island on the lake side and bring home the tender. The fool thing ran away last night and a party found her half full of water.”