He opened his eyes and came back to the little boat, rocking gently on the undulating swells; to the lonely glory of the peaceful ocean, arched by the starry sky. A light breeze was beginning to blow from the southwest, dispersing the thin silver mist that overhung the water. Percy glanced at his watch; it was quarter past ten, almost time for the ebb to cease and the flood to begin. Should he keep on or go back? He must decide quickly. Already his arms were tired, and he was more than two miles north of the island. The longer he delayed his decision the harder would be his pull against the flood if he turned. Minutes passed as he pondered, barely dipping his oars. It was slack tide now and the pea-pod just held her own. Down on the breeze floated a distant, melancholy note, the voice of the whistling buoy south of Roaring Bull Ledge, two miles from Isle au Haut. Was it an invitation or a warning? Slowly at first, then faster, the stern of the boat swung round. The tide had turned. The flood would carry him north with but little effort on his part. Should he let himself go with it? Percy's indecision vanished. The tide of his own life had turned, like that of the ocean; slow and doubtful though the change had been, the current was at last setting the other way. Grasping the oar-handles tightly, he whirled the head of the pea-pod southward and started again for Tarpaulin Island. XII PULLING TOGETHER The next hour and a half was anything but fun for young Whittington. His mind was set on reaching Camp Spurling before the hands of the alarm-clock came together at midnight. At any cost he must be in his bunk before the others woke. It was a long, hard row, a battle every second with the tide running against him with untiring strength. It demanded every ounce of energy Percy possessed. His back complained dully. His arms felt as if they would drop off. Time and again he decided that the next stroke must be his last, that he must lie down in the bottom of the boat and rest; but each time he tapped some hitherto unknown reservoir of power within himself, and kept on pulling. With the stern demand on his physical forces a change was being wrought in his brain. His foolish pride, his false sense of shame at changing his hasty plan to desert, his bitter feeling toward the others, gradually disappeared. Every oar-stroke brought him not only nearer the island, but also nearer a sane, wholesome view of life itself. His thoughts turned naturally to the group at the camp, this clean, independent, self-respecting crowd, who cared no more for his money than for the pebbles on the beach; who estimated a fellow, not by what he had, but by what he was. After all, that was the real test; Percy could not help acknowledging it.