It had been dawning more and more on Ken that he had been an idiot not to stay in town, where there _was_ work to do. He had hated to prick Phil's ideal bubble and cancel the lease on the farm,--for it was really she who had picked out the place,--but he was becoming aware that he should have done so. This latest turn in the Sturgis fortunes made it evident that something must be done to bring more money than the invested capital yielded. There was no work here; unless perhaps he might hire out as a farm-hand, at small wages indeed. And he knew nothing of farm work. Nevertheless, he and Felicia shook their heads at Mr. Dodge's proposal. They sat at the table within the mellow ring of lamplight, after Kirk had gone to bed, and thrashed out their problem,--pride fighting need and vanquishing judgment. It was a good letter that Kenelm sent Mr. Dodge, and the attorney shook his own head as he read it in his study, and said: "I admire your principle, my boy--but oh, I pity your inexperience!" CHAPTER VII A MAYING The City Transfer bill was paid; so were the other bills. Ken, on his way out from Asquam, stopped with a sudden light in his dogged face and turned back. He sought out the harbor-master, who was engaged in painting a dory behind his shop. "Wal, boy, want to get a fish-hook?" he queried, squinting toward Ken with a preoccupied eye. (He sold hardware and fishing-tackle, as well as attending to the duties of his post.) Ken disclaimed any desire for the fish-hook, and said he wanted to ask about a boat. "Ain't got none for sale ner hire, just now," the harbor-master replied. Ken said, so he had heard, but that wasn't it. And he told the man about the abandoned power-boat in the inlet. The harbor-master stood up straight and looked at Ken, at last. "Wal, ding!" said he. "That's Joe Pasquale's boat, sure's I'm a-standin' here!" "Who," said Ken, "is Joe Pasquale?" "He is--or _woz_--a Portugee fisherman--lobsterman, ruther. He got drownded in Febrerry--fell outen his boat, seems so, an' we got _him_, but we never got the boat. Couldn't figger wher' she _had_ got to. He was down harbor when 't happent. Cur'ous tide-racks 'round here." "Whose is she, then?" Ken asked. "Any widows or orphans?" "Nary widder," said the harbor-master, chewing tobacco reflectively. "_No_ kin. Finders keepers. B'longs to you, I reckon. Ain't much good, be she?" "Hole stove in her," Ken said. "The engine is all there, but I guess it'll need a good bit of tinkering at." "Ain't wuth it," said the harbor-master. "She's old as Methusaly, anyways. Keep her--she's salvage if ever there wuz. Might be able to git sunthin' fer her enjine--scrap iron." "Thanks," said Ken; "I'll think it over." And he ran nearly all the way to Applegate Farm. Kirk did not forget his promise to the Maestro. He found the old gentleman in the garden, sitting on a stone bench beside the empty fountain. "I knew that you would come," he said. "Do you know what day it is?"