“Come on now, Sol!” pleaded Sim. “I want to hear the rest of that about you and Williams. You left off in the most ticklish place possible, out of spite, I do believe. I'm hangin' on to that boat in the breakers until I declare I believe I'm catchin' cold just from imagination.” “Wait a minute, Sim,” said the depot master. Then he turned to his assistant. “Issy,” he said, “this is about the nineteenth time you've done just this sort of thing. You're no earthly use and I ought to give you your clearance papers. But I can't, you're too--well--ornamental. You've got to be punished somehow and I guess the best way will be to send you right up to Major Hardee's and let you give him the remnants. He'll want to know how it happened, and you tell him the truth. The TRUTH, understand? If you invent any fairy tales out of those novels of yours I'll know it by and by and--well, YOU'LL know I know. No remarks, please. Git!” Issy hesitated, seemed about to speak, thought better of it, took up package and cap, and “got.” “Let's see,” said the Captain, sitting down in one of the station chairs and lighting a fresh cigar; “where was Williams and I in that yarn of mine? Oh, yes, I could see land and cal'lated we was goin' to bump. Well, we did. Steerin' anyways but dead ahead was out of the question, and all I could do was set my teeth and trust in my bein' a member of the church. The Shootin' Star hit that beach like she was the real article. Overboard went oar and canvas and grub pails, and everything else that wa'n't nailed down, includin' Fatty and me. I grabbed him by the collar and wallowed ashore. “'Awk! hawk!' he gasps, chokin', 'I'm drownded.' “I let him BE drownded, for the minute. I had the launch to think of, and somehow or 'nother I got hold of her rodin' and hauled the anchor up above tide mark. Then I attended to my passenger. “'Where are we?' he asks. “I looked around. Close by was nothin' but beach-grass and seaweed and sand. A little ways off was a clump of scrub pines and bayberry bushes that looked sort of familiar. And back of them was a little board shanty that looked more familiar still. I rubbed the salt out of my eyes. “'WELL!' says I. 'I swan to man!' “'What is it?' he says. 'Do you know where we are? Whose house is that?' “I looked hard at the shanty. “'Humph!' I grunted. 'I do declare! Talk about a feller's comin' back to his own. Whose shanty is that? Well, it's mine, if you want to know. The power that looks out for the lame and the lazy has hove us ashore on Woodchuck Island, and that's a piece of real estate I own.'