“I know,” said Hunch, “a three sticker. Belongs to the Wilsons. Stud Marble's been sailing her.” “That's the boat. Well, we've bought her, and she's going out March eleventh with that Menominee bill. If you think you'd like to take her out, say so, and you can have her. We've named her the _Lucy Jackson_.” Hunch looked down at his cap and then up at the yellow-and-red lithograph, that hung over Mr. Jackson's desk, of Maud S., rounding into the home stretch. He did not know what to say. “Speak up, Badeau. Do you want it?” “Yes, sir, I'll try it.” “We don't want you to try it; we want you to do it. There mustn't be any doubt about it.” “There ain't any. I can do it.” “All right. Come in again some day this week, and we'll fix up the details. You might be picking up a crew. And you'd better go down and look her over. She's at Wilson's dock.” Hunch spent the day in going over the schooner, setting things to right and taking an inventory of repairs. For the next two weeks he worked day and night, eating and sleeping when he could. Then exactly on time, the _Lucy Jackson_ was ready, and she sailed for Menominee with Hunch at the wheel and a hundred and ten thousand feet of lumber on the deck. The spring and summer months slipped by. Hunch was kept so busy delivering cargoes at nearly every port on the lake down to Chicago and Michigan City, and once going around through the straits to Alpena, that he kept little track of the time. He was usually at Liddington at least once a month, but he stayed only a day or so at a time, and then kept aboard the schooner as much as possible. It was in October, nine months after his talk with Joe Cartier, that he met Mamie's father in the street in Liddington. Hunch had gone to the post-office, expecting orders from Mr. Jackson, and was hurrying back to the schooner to see about unloading her cargo. Banks was coming down the steps from the bank. “Hello, Badeau,” he said, holding out his hand. “Where've you been all this time?” “Busy,” said Hunch, taking the hand, and wishing that he could get away. “Where are you now? Up to Manistee?” “I s'pose I hail from there 's much as anywheres.” “On the lake again, ain't you. One of the boys told me you was getting up in the world.” “Oh, I ain't very much yet.” “You're cap'n of a big schooner, I hear.” “Yes. How's all your folks?” “Pretty well. Mamie was sick for a while, but I guess she's all right now. Let's see, it's most a year since I saw you. Don't you ever get down here?” “Not very often.” “How long 're you here for?” “Guess I can get away to-morrow some time.” “You'll be around to-night, won't you? Mamie and the old lady 'll never forgive you if you go away without seeing us.” “Why----” “Look here, now, Badeau, I'm going to send Frank down with the rig, and fetch you up to supper.” “No--I can't get away. Honest, I can't. I've got a big load here----” “None of that now. You've got to come.” “I can't do it, Mr. Banks. I would if I could.”