“No, I’d like that first rate,” answered George. “It’s this senseless shooting of creatures that you don’t want after they are shot that I don’t believe in. I don’t believe in shooting things just for the sake of killing them. Actual hunting in the woods for game that you live on is another thing. It’s a healthful, vigorous sport that takes one into clean surroundings and does one good.” They chatted on, discussing this and that, till the yacht at length turned the head of the island and ran along past Bryant’s Cove. “We won’t forget that harbour in a hurry,” they said, as they sailed by. The wind was gradually dying down with the sun, and would not carry them much farther that night, though they were soon running before it, as they rounded the uppermost point and headed away for the foot of the island, some thirteen miles away. “We’ll have just about wind enough to run along to Dave Benson’s place,” said George. “It’s two miles down, but the wind and tide are both in our favour,—what there is of them. We can buy some green corn of Dave, and he will let us pull his lobster-pots and charge us only five cents for each lobster. Things are cheap down here, if you buy them of the fishermen. A little money means a good deal to them. A little flour and tea and sugar at the village store, and they live mighty comfortably on what they catch and what they raise on their farms. They don’t know what it means to be poor, as the poor in our city do.” “Yes, and they live a happy life, for the most part,” said Henry Burns. “They get a good share of their living out of the sea, and I’ve always noticed that seafaring people are generally very well contented with their lot. You never hear them grumbling, as men do that work hard on farms. The sea seems to inspire them more; at least, it seems so to me.” “What does ‘inspire’ mean, please, Henry?” queried young Joe, winking at Bob. “It sounds like a very nice word.” “Inspiration means a strong desire and ambition to do something, and a conviction that one cannot fail,” answered Henry Burns. “For instance, I might feel myself inspired to knock an idea into your head, just like this.” And Henry Burns administered a sound cuff on that young gentleman’s head. “That’s a very crude example,” added Henry Burns. “Perhaps I can give you a better one, if you would like.” “No, I thank you,” said young Joe. “That will do very well for the present. I think I understand.” Dave Benson’s place was a weather-beaten old house set in the midst of a corn and bean patch, close by a little creek that ran in from the western bay. It had an air of dilapidation, but, withal, of comfort about it. There was a little garden, some hake were drying on flakes beyond the house, a rowboat and a dory were pulled up on the beach a little way up the creek, and the indispensable sailboat, built by Dave himself in the winter months, was lying a little offshore in the shelter of a projecting hook of land.