“Yes,” said Tempest, grinning; “it’s under my hat. The beauty of having a home like that is that you don’t have a lot of fuss when the time comes for moving on. My baggage has consisted of a toothbrush and a banjo for years. Now I only have the toothbrush. I had to part with the banjo some time ago, owing to the fact that the landlady of a boarding-house considered it necessary for me to pay my bill. That was in England. It was a wrench, parting from the old banjo, because we’d had some good times together, especially when we hadn’t got the price of a ham sandwich for supper. It’s wonderful what power a little music has to soothe the hungry beast in you. I often wonder whether somebody else with a healthy appetite takes that banjo for supper these days.” That night Dave slept for ten solid hours in Tempest’s “guest chamber,” awakening with a delightful sense of freedom. It was a sort of vacation for him, and he was not allowed to do any of the cooking or dish-washing. His knee, however, troubled him a good deal, and after breakfast Tempest went to summon the doctor. He walked all the way there, riding back with the man of medicine in his buggy. “Nothing broken,” was the doctor’s verdict, “and if you keep it in a cold compress for a few days, you’ll have it all right again. How did it happen?” Dave told him. “Tush, lad, you’re evidently not born to be drowned,” said the doctor cheerily as he departed. Tempest followed him outside. “What do I owe you, Doc?” he asked. “It’s no use your sending the bill on afterward, as this is only our summer residence.” He produced a purse from a pocket, containing a sadly depleted store of coins. The doctor glanced at them. “When I take money for patching up a shipwrecked kid,” he said pleasantly, “I’ll change my profession. Good-by. Don’t hesitate to call me again if it doesn’t go on all right.” Under the new treatment, however, Dave’s knee rapidly began to grow well, and by the time he could walk comfortably he and Tempest had cemented a warm friendship. Altogether, they spent ten days in the log-cabin. At the end of a week the boy, although he was thoroughly happy, began to realize that it was about time for him to make for the nearest port and find a ship. “Why hurry?” Tempest protested. “We shall have to get a move on when funds are finished. Besides, we haven’t made any plans. Leave it for a day or two.” Toward the end of their stay they lived largely on rabbits, which were plentiful, caught in snares, supplementing these with bread and potatoes bought at the farm. “Where are you bound for when you leave here?” Dave asked when necessity demanded that something must be done. “Albany, I guess, the same as you,” replied Tempest. “One can nearly always get a job on a ship there. I vote we make a start in the morning and take to the road. My automobile isn’t running satisfactorily at the moment.”