“I guess that’s MacTavish,” Dave said, unable to resist a smile. “I’m glad the _Kingfisher_ didn’t drown him. My name is Hallard――David Hallard, of Brooklyn, New York.” “Glad to know you. I am pleased you called, though the method you adopted of coming ashore has its disadvantages. My name is Bruce Tempest.” Dave thought his companion’s slight accent was familiar. “Are you an American?” he asked. “Well, I am in a way. I started out under the Stars and Stripes, but I have been a bit of a wanderer. Since we’ve got to know one another so well, may I offer you such hospitality as I can in my shack? It’s nearer than the farm. Come along, or you’ll get cold.” A little way above the rim of the trees Tempest led Dave to a log hut. “It’s my home for the present,” he said, thrusting open the door and showing its bare interior. “I’m sorry the piano has been taken away to be tuned, and both the cook and the parlor-maid are having the day off, but I’ll have a cup of hot coffee ready for you inside of two shakes. In the meanwhile, slip off those wet things until they’re dry and I’ll allow you to wear my best trousers. There’s only one hole in them, and I mean to mend that some day.” While he continued to talk in a careless, half-bantering tone, he was busying himself with an oil-stove and “Billie” kettle; and soon a rough-and-ready meal had been prepared. Dave, now rapidly recovering from the effects of his immersion, was beginning to feel ravenous, for nobody on the _Kingfisher_ had eaten anything since the previous day. Canned salmon, thick slices of bread and butter, and coffee, set out on an upturned box innocent of a table-cover, formed the repast, and Bruce Tempest played host politely. “Do you live here all the time?” Dave asked, looking around at the shack. Besides the box which served as a table, it contained two chairs, one of which had a leg missing. Tempest was sitting on that by the simple process of tilting it backward and putting his feet on a ledge in the wall of the shack. In one corner were a couple of shelves on which stood a frying-pan, cups and saucers, and a few plates, most of them badly chipped. A mattress and bedding in another corner virtually completed the inventory in that room. Through an open door the boy saw a second room, as scantily furnished. “Been here a month, resting,” replied Tempest. “I don’t think that game knee of yours will carry you very far just now, will it?” “I must have bumped it pretty hard,” said the boy. “It’s swelling.” “Well, this isn’t exactly a first-class hotel,” Tempest went on, “but I shall be glad to have you stay here till you get on your pins again. Your four companions will probably go on to Albany, and be fed like fighting-cocks by the Mariners’ Aid Society, or whatever it’s called. I’m afraid there isn’t much chance of rescuing your kit from the wreck. She’ll break up mighty soon with a sea like this running.”