At breakfast, Captain Fred announced that he was going ashore. Something must be done at once about a crew. He should run down to Provincetown himself, and should not return until the afternoon at the earliest. Meanwhile, they must get along as best they could. The yacht was in a perfectly safe position; the steward (the only man left on board) was an entirely competent and trustworthy person; and the sailing-master himself would be back, without fail, before night. “And since I am without a crew,” Captain Fred concluded, “I think that you young people will have to man my gig for me.” [Illustration: ON BOARD THE YACHT, “FAIR ROSAMOND.”] This proposal was agreed to, willingly enough; and a few minutes later, the gig being brought alongside, Jasper called “Giglers away!” and they all got in, Ethel and Kitty at the oars (they were accustomed to rowing together), Freddy in the bow, and Captain Fred and Jasper in the stern-sheets. Mrs. Fred preferred to remain on board and read. They pulled directly inshore. The village and railroad station were some distance below, but much nearer by land than by water. “Good-bye, all!” said Captain Fred as he jumped ashore. “Take good care of yourselves. And, Jasper, do try to behave yourself for one day.” Then he waved his “gripsack” and was gone. They rowed along, not caring to land,—for the shore everywhere had the genuine Cape aspect, barren and unattractive,—but finding it pleasure enough to float upon the bosom of the sparkling blue water, now drifting idly, now pulling themselves here and there as the fancy seized them. They chatted and laughed and shouted, growing even boisterous by and by, Freddy and the two girls getting into a regular romp at last in the forward part of the boat. Jasper (who was not strong) sat looking down upon this with an air of elderly indulgence. It was one of Jasper’s delights to give himself patriarchal airs. Although just Ethel’s age, sixteen, he was, like Captain Fred, uncle to both her and Freddy,—a relationship which had, by courtesy, been extended to Kitty during her stay with them, though that young lady had professed herself quite indifferent to the honor,—and he loved to talk of his “avuncular responsibilities.” “Ah, children,” he now declared, “it does your poor old uncle good to see you enjoying yourselves in this way. “‘I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray.’” “Jasper,” asked Kitty, flushed with exercise and suddenly resting on her oar, “can you sing?” “Sing!” Jasper looked at her as though he thought her crazy. “My dear niece, what can you be thinking of? I could no more sing than I could—raise a pair of side-whiskers.” He gave his cheek a melancholy tap. “Oh, yes, you can!” said Kitty. “You can sing _something_,—can’t you? Some old song or other.” “Some old song?” Jasper shook his head. “No,” said he,