The remark was evidently intended for Percy's ears. At least the lad took it so. He felt sorry if Nemo was really hurt. Lane went out, and Percy turned over for another nap. When he next woke it was almost seven and the cabin was empty. He got up and dressed leisurely. Looking out of the window, he saw Filippo digging clams on the flats across the cove. That meant chowder for dinner, a dish he particularly detested. He made a wry mouth and turned to the larder, but could discover nothing but some cold fish and fried potatoes. The fire had gone out, and he determined to await Filippo's return before breakfasting. Deliberately scratching a match, he lighted a cigarette, thereby breaking the rule against smoking in the cabin. Then he stretched himself out on his bunk and began reading _The Three Musketeers_. Filippo returned before he had finished his chapter. The Italian's eyes grew round at the tobacco smoke. "You know Misser Jim say no smoking!" "Mister Jim isn't here now. You mind your own business and I'll mind mine. Get me some breakfast, will you?" "Fire gone out while you sleep and everything grow cold. You bring some wood and I build another." To Percy's still overstrained nerves Filippo's way of putting the matter suggested a condition on which the meal depended rather than a request. "Bring it yourself!" he growled. "I'm no servant! I don't shag kindling for any Dago!" At this insult Filippo's olive cheeks became quite pale. Into his eyes flashed a look Whittington had never seen there before. For an instant he almost feared that the young foreigner was about to seize a knife and spring upon him. Then the look passed and Filippo's color came back. "All right!" he laughed. "No wood, no breakfast!" Stepping out to the fish-house, he began shelling the clams he had just dug. Percy vacillated between pride and hunger. Hunger won. [Illustration] "I didn't mean that, Filippo," he repented. "I beg your pardon. I'll get the wood." He did, and Filippo heated up the fish and potatoes. Percy tried to engage him in conversation, but was able to extract only monosyllables in return. Evidently his hasty words still rankled in the Italian's breast. Breakfast over, Percy took his book and started for the beacon. It was a beautiful July morning. The sea rippled blue and sparkling to the horizon. Budge was hauling his traps on the ledges around the base of Brimstone. A half-mile farther out Jim and Throppy were busy at their trawls. Conditions for fishing could not have been more ideal.