“And he shoved the boy off on us for the summer,” said Ainsworth ill-naturedly. “Oh, no, not for the purpose of getting rid of him,” Remington hastened to explain. “Densmore’s all right. He wouldn’t intentionally cause us inconvenience. He had two reasons for asking me to bring him. He learned Paul was addicted to cigarettes, and he wanted to get him away somewhere where cigarettes aren’t to be had. He thought, too, that good, wholesome exercise in the open, and a complete change of environment, might give him a new view of life and awaken his ambition. The boy’s mother has never permitted him to take part in what she calls rough games--baseball, football and real boys’ sports--and she’d never let him go camping with other fellows, though he’s begged to go. Afraid he’d get hurt. It took a lot of argument on Densmore’s part to get her permission to let him come with us.” “One of those young hopefuls, isn’t he, that thinks his father is rich and there’s no use of his ever doing anything but spend money?” suggested Ainsworth. “From the little I’ve seen of him, he’ll spend it, all right, too.” At that moment the boat hove alongside, and a tall, sallow-faced lad, perhaps seventeen years of age, a cigarette hanging at the corner of his mouth, tossed a bill to the boatman, languidly rose to his feet, caught the rope ladder lying over the ship’s side, and with difficulty climbed to the deck. “Glad to see you, Paul,” greeted Remington. “We were getting a bit worried about you. You’re late.” “Oh, I didn’t think there was any rush,” said Paul indifferently. “Stopped for luncheon at the hotel. Horrible stuff they serve there. It really isn’t fit to eat.” “I’m afraid your appetite isn’t very good, Paul,” suggested Remington. “Wait till you get your lungs full of salt air, and rough it a bit; you’ll think anything is good then.” “Oh, I don’t know,” Paul remarked indifferently, as he lounged back upon a chair, drew a fresh cigarette from a silver case, lighted it, flicked some ashes from his white flannel trousers and casually surveyed the deck. “What a rum old ship this is!” he continued. “I thought we were going to have a comfortable yacht.” “The _North Star_ isn’t much to look at,” admitted Remington, “but she’s the best sort of a ship for our trip. No ordinary yacht would do. We’re going to rough it good and plenty, you know.” “That so? What kind of roughing it?” “Hunting, fishing, camping, and that sort of thing. I hope we’ll have some good bear hunting before we get back.” “Bear hunting!” Paul was interested at once. “What kind of bears shall we run across? Grizzlies?” “No,” laughed Remington, “Polar bears.” “Polar bear hunting! Cricky, but that’ll be great!” Paul sat up excitedly. “Where’re we going, Mr. Remington? I didn’t pay much attention to what Father said about it. I thought it was just an ordinary yachting trip.”