“Barzilla,” says the cap’n, “if we tell Peter that that relation of his is figgering to marry Maudina Stumpton for her money, and that he’s more’n likely to elope with her, ’twill pretty nigh kill Pete, won’t it?  No, sir; it’s up to you and me.  We’ve got to figger out some way to get rid of the critter ourselves.”

“It’s a wonder to me,” I says, “that Peter puts up with him.  Why don’t he order him to clear out, and tell Belle if he wants to?  She can’t blame Peter ’cause his uncle was father to an outrage like that.”

Jonadab looks at me scornful.  “Can’t, hey?” he says.  “And her high-toned and chumming in with the bigbugs?  It’s easy to see you never was married,” says he.

Well, I never was, so I shut up.

We set there and thought and thought, and by and by I commenced to sight an idee in the offing.  ’Twas hull down at first, but pretty soon I got it into speaking distance, and then I broke it gentle to Jonadab.  He grabbed at it like the “Labrador mack’rel” grabbed Stumpton’s hook.  We set up and planned until pretty nigh three o’clock, and all the next day we put in our spare time loading provisions and water aboard the Patience M. We put grub enough aboard to last a month.

Just at daylight the morning after that we knocked at the door of Montague’s bedroom.  When he woke up enough to open the door—­it took some time, ’cause eating and sleeping was his mainstay—­we told him that we was planning an early morning fishing trip, and if he wanted to go with the folks he must come down to the landing quick.  He promised to hurry, and I stayed by the door to see that he didn’t get away.  In about ten minutes we had him in the skiff rowing off to the Patience M.

“Where’s the rest of the crowd?” says he, when he stepped aboard.

“They’ll be along when we’re ready for ’em,” says I.  “You go below there, will you, and stow away the coats and things.”

So he crawled into the cabin, and I helped Jonadab get up sail.  We intended towing the skiff, so I made her fast astern.  In half a shake we was under way and headed out of the cove.  When that British poet stuck his nose out of the companion we was abreast the p’int.

“Hi!” says he, scrambling into the cockpit.  “What’s this mean?”

I was steering and feeling toler’ble happy over the way things had worked out.

“Nice sailing breeze, ain’t it?” says I, smiling.

“Where’s Mau-Miss Stumpton?” he says, wild like.

“She’s abed, I cal’late,” says I, “getting her beauty sleep.  Why don’t you turn in?  Or are you pretty enough now?”

He looked first at me and then at Jonadab, and his face turned a little yellower than usual.

“What kind of a game is this?” he asks, brisk.  “Where are you going?”

’Twas Jonadab that answered.  “We’re bound,” says he, “for the Bermudas.  It’s a lovely place to spend the winter, they tell me,” he says.