Pud rummaged around until he had found a pad of paper and five stamped and addressed envelopes held together by an elastic band. These had been supplied by his mother, with the injunction to send a letter every day. Pud had meant to send one yesterday, but he had forgotten. Now he placed a sheet of the paper on the lid of a box and, bidding Tim keep an eye on the helmsman, wrote as follows: DEAR MOTHER AND FATHER: We camped last night about two miles this side of Farquhar’s Landing. Harmon is a fine cook. The launch is doing finely. I guess we will make Livermore to-day and camp near the bridge. The cake was fine. We are all well and enjoying ourselfs. Tim sends his respects. Your loving son, PUD P.S. If we have time we might call on Aunt Sabrina like you said, but maybe we had ought to push on. At noon they tied up alongside a tumble-down pier and ate a cold lunch. Breakfast had been hearty and sustaining, and it was decided that what cooking they did had best be done at the end of each day’s voyage. As only some three miles lay between them and Livermore, there seemed no good reason to hurry, and so they lolled in the partial shade of the landing-pier for an hour and then went into the water. The glimpse of a fish sent Tim scurrying back to the launch for his tackle. The can of worms had, unfortunately, been overturned in such a way as to release most of the contents, but enough remained to bait three lines and for nearly two hours they all sat on the edge of the pier and sought to provide for the evening meal. But the fish wouldn’t bite, and about four o’clock they cast off and went on again.