All these things severely taxed the capacity of the storage space. In fact, the tent and the cots and the cooking-utensils, which lived in a canvas bag when not in use, had to lie in the forward compartment and were forever being stumbled over. So, too, with the box of tonic and a peck of potatoes in a paper sack, neither of which would accommodate themselves to a locker. After the first rain the potatoes burst the sack and it became one of Harmon’s daily duties to rout them out from unexpected places and herd them together again. There was, also, a boat-hook which seemed to have no real home and which was always lying on the floor where you could easiest put an unwary foot on it. After Pud and Tim had each narrowly escaped broken limbs as a result of stepping on the pesky thing and Pud had exasperatedly threatened to heave it overboard, Harmon cleverly solved the difficulty by tying a line to it and dropping it over the side. There were times when they might have made use of it if it had been handy, but it wasn’t and they got on very nicely without it. I think that’s all the description the _Kismet_ merits. Perhaps I should add that an empty flagpole leaned rakishly from a brass socket at the stern and that the boat’s name, done in black letters, could still be plainly read on each side of the bow. So much, then, for the craft, and now let us return to the crew. CHAPTER IV UNDER THE SKULL-AND-CROSS-BONES ‘I wish he’d hurry up with that water,’ muttered Tim, his hands under his head, his straw hat pulled over his forehead, and the rest of his countenance obscured by the wilted leaves of the maple branch which he had thrust between the buttons of his shirt. Pud, cross-legged, a grass-blade between his teeth and a ruminative look on his face, answered absently, ‘Maybe he will.’ It was getting along toward one o’clock now, and thrice they had had to shift their positions to keep the tree boughs between them and the glowing sun. There was a faint breath of air creeping down the long green slope behind them which to some extent made existence more bearable. At least, it gave them a slight advantage over the mosquitoes. ‘How far do you think we’ve come?’ asked Tim after a minute of silence. Pud aroused himself from his abstraction and uncrossed his cramped legs. ‘Let’s see, Farquhar’s is eight miles, isn’t it? And I guess we’re a couple of miles beyond that. Say, ten miles in an hour and three quarters is going some, Tim! Why, we must have made six miles an hour, and Mr. Tremble said she wouldn’t do better than five!’ ‘Well, don’t you suppose the current helped some?’ ‘Gee, that’s so. Maybe it did, though it isn’t very strong. Yes, I guess it must have.’ ‘How much farther do you think we’ll go to-day?’ Tim sounded sleepy.