that the fog was thicker than several things—which was true.
"So I invited them into the blind to—oh, the usual ceremony—and they came, and they turned out to be Jack Selden—the chap I told you about who was so decent to me in Paris—and his guide.
"So we had—ceremonies—several of them—and Selden stayed to shoot with me over my decoys, and our bag was fifty-three, all big duck except fifteen bluebills.
"Selden is a godsend to me. We're going to stay out here to-night at the lighthouse, and shoot all to-morrow if it doesn't blow too hard. It's blowing great guns now. I'm here in the lighthouse, writing in the glow of a lamp in the keeper's living-room, with his good little wife sewing by the fire and a half-dozen of his kids tumbling about on the floor. It's a pretty sight; I love children and firesides and that sort of thing. They've got hold of Selden now, and are making him tell stories of adventure. He's been all over the world, and is perfectly crazy to get married. Says he would prefer a widow with yellow hair and blue eyes. Do you know any? He's a nice chap."
"Catharine, I wish I were in Avalon. They could put me in a strait-jacket and I wouldn't care as long as [you were, crossed out] I could be with [you, crossed out] your father and you in Avalon.
"It's growing late, and Selden and I should be on the ducking-grounds to-morrow before dawn. The keeper's wife says it will blow too hard, but Selden only smiles. He's a cool one, and if he has the nerve to go out I'll go, too.
"With sincere regards to your father and every wish for his speedy recovery, I remain
"Yours faithfully,
"James Harroll."
Lines Scribbled on the Leaf of a Note-book and Found in a Bottle in the Pocket of an old Shooting-coat a Year Later.
"Atlantic Ocean,
"Miles South of Holy Cross Light,
"February 16.
"Catharine—I think this is the end. Selden and I have been blown out to sea in a rowboat, and it's leaking. I only want to say good-by. Telegraph Selden's mother, Lenox, Massachusetts. I have nobody to notify. Good-by.
"James Harroll."
Telegram to James Harroll, Received and Opened by the Keeper while Search-boats Were still Out after Mr. Harroll and Mr. Selden, Two Days Missing.
"James Harroll, Holy Cross Light, Florida, East Coast:
"Don't run any risks. Be careful for our sakes. Terrible storm on the coast reported here. Wire me that you are safe.
"Catharine Delancy,
"Avalon, Florida."
Telegrams Addressed to Young Harroll, and Opened by the Keeper of the Lighthouse after the Search-boats Had Returned.
No. 1.
"Why don't you telegraph us? Your silence and the reports of the storm alarm us. Reply at once.
"Catharine."
No. 2.
"Wire Catharine, Jim. You surely were not ass enough to go out in such a storm.
"S. Delancy."
No. 3.
"For pity's sake telegraph to me that you are safe. I cannot sleep.
"Catharine."
Telegram to Miss Catharine Delancy, Avalon, Florida.
"Holy Cross Light.
"Miss Catharine Delancy:
"Rowboat containing Mr. Harroll and Mr. Selden blown out to sea. Search-boats returned without finding any trace of them.
"Caswell, Keeper."
Telegram from Mr. Delancy to Keeper of Holy Cross Light.
"Caswell:
"Charter a fast ocean-going tug and as many launches as necessary. Don't give up the search. Spare no expense. Check mailed to you to-day.
"I will give ten thousand dollars to the man who rescues James Harroll. You may draw on me for any amount necessary. Keep me constantly informed of your progress by wire.
"Stephen Delancy."
In from the open sea drifted the castaways, the sun rising in tropic splendor behind them, before them a far strip of snowy surf edging green shores.
Selden sat in the bow, bailing; Harroll dug vigorously into the Atlantic with both oars; a heavy flood-tide was doing the rest. Presently Selden picked up the ducking-glass and examined the shore.
Harroll rested his oars, took a pull at the mineral water, and sighed deeply. "Except for the scare and the confounded leak it's been rather amusing, hasn't it?" he said.
"It's all right.... Hope you didn't set that farewell message afloat."
"What message?"
"Oh—I thought I saw you scribbling in your notebook and——"
"And what?"
"And stick the leaf into the bottle of gun-oil. If I was mistaken, kindly give me my bottle of gun-oil."
"Pooh!" said Harroll. "The storm was magnificent. Can't a man jot down impressions? Open a can of sardines, will you? And pass me the bread, you idiot!"
Selden constructed a sandwich and passed it aft. "When we near those ducks," he said, "we'd better give them a broadside—our larder's getting low. I'll load for us both."
He fished about among the cartridge-sacks for some dry shells, loaded the guns, and laid them ready.
"Bluebills," observed Harroll, as the boat drew near. "How tame they are! Look, Selden! It would be murder to shoot."
The boat, drifting rapidly, passed in among the raft of ducks; here and there a glistening silver-breasted bird paddled lazily out of the way, but the bulk of the flock floated serenely on either side, riding the swell, bright golden eyes fearlessly observing the intruders.
"Oh, a man can't shoot at things that act like that!" exclaimed Selden petulantly. "Shoo! Shoo—o!" he cried, waving his gun in hopes that a scurry and rise might justify assassination. But the birds only watched him in perfect confidence. The boat drove on; the young men sat staring across the waves, guns idly balanced across their knees. Presently Harroll finished his sandwich and resumed the oars.
"Better bail some more," he said. "What are you looking at?"—for Selden, using the ducking-glass, had begun to chuckle.
"Well, upon my word!" he said slowly—"of all luck! Where do you suppose we are?"
"Well, where the devil are we?"
"Off Avalon!"
"Avalon!" repeated Harroll, stupidly. "Why, man, it's a hundred miles south of Holy Cross!"
"Well, we've made it, I tell you. I can see one of their dinky little temples shining among the trees. Hark! There go the bells ringing for meditation!"
A mellow chime came across the water.
"It can't be Avalon," repeated Harroll, not daring to hope for such fortune. "What do you know about Avalon, anyway?"
"What I've heard."
"What's that?"
"Why, it's a resort for played-out people who've gone the pace. When a girl dances herself into the fidgets, or a Newport matron goes to pieces, or a Wall Street man begins to talk to himself, hither they toddle. It's the fashionable round-up for smashed nerves and wibbly-wobbly intellects—a sort of "back-to-nature" enterprise run by a "doctor." He makes 'em all wear garments cut in the style of the humble bed-sheet, and then he turns 'em out to grass; and they may roll on it