“Yes, dad’s a boy yet,” smiled Hal, “but I won’t give him a chance to lick me on the money score; it’s too good fun having you all here, and a royal holiday ahead of us, without hunting for a trimming from dad because I play the la-de-da or think I’m the whole thing.”

Shag was thinking hard, but he said nothing; yet, little as he knew of the world, he was quite aware how few boys in Hal’s position would act as he had done.  Had it not been for Sir George’s son what would his life at college have been?  He knew Locke never liked him, he knew that Shorty positively disliked him, he knew there was a strong element of prejudice in the school against him, and he knew positively that, were it not for Lord Mortimer’s influence and recommendation, he would never have been accepted in this exclusive college as a student.  What then did he owe to Hal?  Everything, as far as making life in the East bearable, as far as being received on an equality with the other boys went.  It was a tremendous debt that he owed this handsome boy who was his host for the summer.  But before the holiday was ended Shag paid that debt with all his heart, and almost with his life.

It happened one day from the simple cause that the camp had run short of bread, and one of the youngsters from the Pacific coast, Freddy by name, had volunteered to paddle over to the mainland for it.  The sailboat being laid up for repairs, Freddy ran out the light little Peterborough, and was just getting away from the island when Hal descried him and shouted to him to wait.  “Think I’d let you go alone in that canoe, kiddie?” he asked.  “There’s too much wind to-day; look at her sweep down the north channel.  Why, she’d turn you round and round like ’Willie waltzing.’  Hold on, I’m coming with you.”  With that he sprang into the canoe and they were away.

It was rather a cold wind for early September, and the two boys were glad to paddle hard to keep their circulation up.  Both were in shirt sleeves and both somewhat chilled; but by the time they had reached the mainland they were all tingling with rioting blood and with appetites ready to attack their cargo of bread, even minus the butter.  They started back in good shape, although Hal’s weather eye observed that the wind was picking up and that they would have to work for it to make the island in good time for supper.  All went well for some distance, although sometimes the waves galloped up and slipped over the bow where Freddy knelt, plying his paddle in good form.  Out in mid-stream, with both wind and current against him, Hal had considerable difficulty in steering; his strong, muscular arms pulled little Freddy’s stroke around, and he bent to the work of “digging potatoes” with a vengeance.  The bow with its light boyish ballast would rise and rise again, slapping down on the surface or taking the waves like a cork.  Then came a line of combers, one on top of another.  The taut little Peterborough rode the first like a shell, the second she dipped, the