So the crowd marched on Bob, and found him down on the beach to the right of the tent, presiding over an enormous kettle, which was hung over the glowing coals of a fire of driftwood, and from which there arose such a savoury odour of stew that, in a burst of enthusiasm, they seized upon the stalwart young cook, and, raising him on their shoulders, bore him with hilarious shouts three times around the fire, much to the apparent discomfiture of the quiet Bob. Then they sat about the fire while Tom brought some tin plates and spoons from the tent and acted as waiter, and Bob produced a pot of hot coffee and some bread. It seemed as though nothing had ever tasted so good. They called for stew till Bob’s stout right arm almost ached with wielding the long-handled tin dipper that served them for a ladle. The sun sank while they sat about the glow of coals, and, by and by, the moon rose slowly over the distant cape and poured a flood of soft light over the waters of the bay. They remembered that night long afterward, for its soft lights and its silent, mystical beauty. The moon was at its full, and the tide crept up on the beach almost to the bed of coals that remained from the fire and still showed red. The islands far off across the bay seemed to have drifted nearer in to shore, and showed clear and distinct. Henry Burns’s story of the day’s adventures lost nothing of its interest, told down there on the shore by the firelight and under the stars. His account of his visit to the banker’s, and how he had gained admittance to Mr. Curtis’s private office, filled them with glee. “I should have liked to see him when he opened that box,” said young Joe. “Didn’t he look surprised, though, Henry?” “Rather,” said Henry Burns. “And the banker’s daughters,—were they pretty, Henry?” asked Tom. “I didn’t notice particularly,” said Henry Burns. “Henry never does notice those things,” said Arthur, dryly. “Oh, no, never!” said young Joe. “You fellows will notice something, if you don’t let up,” said Henry Burns, getting a little red in spite of himself. Then he told them all that he had learned from Mr. Miles Burton about the man Kemble, who was not Kemble at all, but one Craigie, and a desperate man; and all about the plans that were now to be put into operation to capture Craigie and whosoever should come to meet him. The money, too, that had come to each one of them, as his share of the reward, seemed like a fortune, while no expedition that they had ever heard or read of seemed half so full of mystery and danger as that upon which they were now entering.