The strange craft appeared to be modelled after the catamaran, though the builder thereof had never seen one. It consisted of two logs a foot in diameter and ten feet long, which were placed three feet apart. In the middle of the supports two boards were nailed on the sticks, so that the thing looked more like the letter H than it did like a catamaran. On the cross-boards was an old window-glass box; and on the box was seated Tom Topover. He was the naval architect of the structure which bore him, and the craft was not at all creditable to his ingenuity. If he had nailed the cross-boards across the ends of the logs, there would have been more stability to the affair, though in that case it would have been stigmatized as a raft. In his hand Tom held a rude paddle with which he was trying to control the movements of the aquatic chariot. It had no propelling power, and floated with the current down the creek. A bend of the stream threw the force of the water against Hornet Point, and Tom was trying to keep it from going against the rocks. He did not succeed at all, and one of the logs, striking the bank, twisted the structure entirely out of shape. The two logs came together, the nails which held the cross-pieces twisting off with the slight shock. Paul saw that Tom was in peril, and he rushed into the house to get his oars, which he kept in his chamber, in the attic, for he was afraid that some of the hard-looking boys of the Topover herd might steal his boat. He had heard of Tom before, but he had never seen him, and he did not know that the fellow on the queer craft was he. Tom Topover dropped from the box down upon the log, allowing his seat to fall into the water. With the paddle in his hand he threw around the end of the affair, till it was within reach of Paul's flatboat. Reaching out, he hauled it in, and jumped into it. The logs floated off with the current of the little lake. "You are there, are you?" said Paul, as he returned with the oars. "Yes I am. How are you, Paul Bristol?" replied Tom, with a grin from ear to ear. "Well, I thank you; how are you?" added Paul. "I thought you were booked for a bath, and I went in for my oars." "That's right, and you are a good fellow. They say you are a Bristol brick." "Perhaps I am, but I don't happen to know you, and can't say what sort of a brick you may be," replied Paul. "I'm a perfect brick. Gi' me them oars and I'll pick up them logs," continued Tom, extending his hand to receive them. "I'll help you do it," replied Paul, taking the painter and hauling in the boat. "What's your name?" "Jack Sheppard," replied Tom, with a fresh grin. "Have you got a rope, Jack Sheppard?" "Never mind the logs; they don't belong to me, and I don't care for 'em. Can't you lend me this boat a little spell? I want to git some saxifax over there for my mother." "I can't spare her now; I have to go over to Westport after my sister," answered Paul.