Two days later three boys were seated about an up-stairs room in a house in West 57th Street, New York City. The room was large and square and tastefully furnished, but you would have guessed at once that it was a boy’s room; and the guess would have been correct. Roy Porter was the host, and his guests were Mr. Thomas H. Eaton, otherwise known as Chub, and Mr. Richard Somes, better known as Dick. Dick, as we have learned through his letter, has just graduated from Ferry Hill School, and for the present is staying with his father at a New York hotel. While Roy lives in New York, and Chub hails from Pittsburg, Dick claims the distinction of living nowhere in particular. If you ask him he will tell you that he lives “out West.” As a matter of fact, however, he is a nomad. Born in Ohio, he has successively resided in Nebraska, Montana, Colorado, Nevada, London, and one or two other places. His father is a mining man whose business of buying, selling, and operating mines takes him to many places. Dick’s mother has been dead for three years.

Dick himself is big, blond, and seventeen. He isn’t exactly handsome, judged by accepted standards of masculine beauty, but he has nice gray eyes, a smile that wins you at once, and a pleasant voice. Somehow, in spite of the fact that nature has endowed him with a miscellaneous lot of features he is rather attractive; as Chub has once remarked: “He’s just about as homely as a mud fence, only somehow you forget all about it.” It is the crowning sorrow of Dick’s young life that, owing to his nomadic existence, his schooling has been somewhat neglected, with the result that he is a year behind his two friends and that when he reaches college in the fall—if he’s lucky enough to get in—he will be only a freshman, while Roy and Chub are dignified and superior sophomores. Chub, however, tries to console him by telling him not to worry, that like as not he won’t pass the exams!

Chub is staying with Roy, as his guest, and Dick has taken dinner with them this evening. And now, having left Mr. Porter to his paper in the library and Mrs. Porter to her book, they have scurried up to Roy’s room for a good long talk; for there is much to be said. At the present moment Roy, sprawled on his bed, is doing the talking.

“It was Chub’s scheme in the first place, Dick. He thought of it two months ago when we were down by the river one day. There’s an old boat-house on a raft down there, and Chub said it reminded him of the Jolly Roger. I said I didn’t see the resemblance, and he said all you had to do was to turn it around and it would be just like the Jolly Roger.”

“Turn it around?” asked Dick, mystified.

“Sure,” said Chub. “Turn a boat-house around and you have a house-boat. See?”

“College hasn’t taught you much sense, Chub, has it?” laughed Dick. “Then what, Roy?”

“Oh, then Chub got to talking about what fun Mr. Cole must have in his house-boat and how he’d like to go knocking around in one. And then we remembered that Mr. Cole had told us last summer that the Jolly Roger was for sale. Of course, we knew we couldn’t buy it, but we thought maybe he’d be willing to rent it for the summer. And, finally a week or so ago, we wrote him—”

“We?” queried Chub.

“Well, then, you wrote him, Chubbie my boy; but I supplied the stamp. And yesterday—no, the day before yesterday—we got his note; and to-morrow we’re all going to call at his studio and find out how much he wants for it for the summer.”

“Bully!” cried Dick enthusiastically. “And where are we going in it?”

“I thought it would be fun to go down Long Island Sound, but Chub wants to go up the river.”

“Up the Hudson? That would be great! We could go away up to—to Buffalo—”

“Yes, we’d get there about November,” laughed Chub. “The Jolly Roger goes about as fast as—as a mule walks!”

“Bet you Dick really thinks Buffalo is on the Hudson,” said Roy.

“Isn’t it?” asked Dick in surprise. “I did think it was; honest. Where is it, then?”

“It—it’s on—you tell him, Roy.”

“It’s on a lake.”

“It’s on Niagara Falls,” added Chub knowingly. “Bounded on the north by Canada, on the east by the St. Lawrence River, on the south by the United States of America and on the west by—by water. Its principal exports are buffaloes and—and—”

“Oh, dry up!” said Roy. “Anyhow, we could go up as far as Troy—”

“And get our laundry done,” suggested Chub.

“And we could stop for a while at Ferry Hill and see the school and the Doctor and Mrs. Em and Harry—”

“What I want to know—” began Dick.

“And we could stay at Fox Island a day or two. It would be like old times.”

“You mean Harry’s Island,” corrected Dick. “What I want to know, though, is whether we can take Harry along.”

“Chub thinks we can,” answered Roy; “but I don’t see how we could manage it.”

“Easy enough,” said Chub. “There’s three rooms we can use for sleeping. Harry and her mother, or whoever came along with her, could have the big room up front or the little room at the rear, the one Mr. Cole used as a studio.”

“It’s only as big as a piece of cheese,” said Dick.

“Well, they’d only want to sleep in it. They could have that, and the rest of us could have the bedroom and living-room. We’d need some cot-beds—there’s a bully bed in the bedroom now, you know—and some sheets and blankets and things. Pshaw, we could fix it up easy!”

“Well, she’s crazy to go,” said Dick; “and she made me promise to ask you chaps.”

“When does she go away to her aunt’s?” asked Roy.

“The day after to-morrow; and she’s going to stay two weeks. That is, if she can come with us. If not she’ll stay three, I believe. Did you write to her, Roy?”

“Not yet,” Roy answered. “I thought we’d get together and talk it over. If you fellows think we can arrange it I’d be mighty glad to have her. She’s a whole lot of fun, Harry is.”

“Then let’s take her along,” said Dick eagerly.

“Sure,” said Chub. “Let’s write to her now. Where’s your paper and things, Roy?”

They all had a hand in the composition of that letter, and when finished and signed it ran as follows;

“What’s A.B. mean?” asked Roy, suspiciously.

“It means Able Seaman,” replied Chub. “I put it that way because it’s probably the only chance you’ll ever have of getting your A.B.”

“You don’t suppose, do you,” asked Dick anxiously, “that she’ll take that literally: about bringing any one else she wants to? She might think we meant her to bring a crowd, a bunch of girls from that school of hers.”

“Maybe we’d better change that a little,” agreed Roy.

“Well, we’ll say ‘Bring your doughnut recipe and any other one person you want to.’ How’s that?”

“All right; although, of course, a doughnut recipe isn’t a person.”

“Oh, that’s just a joke,” laughed Chub.

“Hadn’t you better label it?” asked Dick innocently. “How is she going to know it’s a joke?”

“She has more discernment than some others I wot of,” replied Chub loftily.

“Well, if she wots that that’s a joke,” muttered Dick, “she’s certainly a pretty good wotter.”

“Who’s got a stamp?” asked Chub as he finished scrawling the address on the envelop. “Thanks. What a very nasty tasting one! I wonder why the government doesn’t flavor its stamps better. It might turn them out in different flavors, you know; peppermint, vanilla, wintergreen, chocolate—”

“Almond,” suggested Roy.

“And then when you went to the post-office you could say: ‘I’d like ten twos, please; peppermint, if you have it.’”

“You’re an awful idiot,” laughed Dick. “Give me the letter and I’ll post it on the way to the hotel. Now, let’s talk about what we’ll have to buy. Let’s figure up and see what it’ll cost us.”

“Go ahead,” said Chub readily. “I’ve got a pencil.”

“First of all, then, we’ll need a lot of provisions.”

“Unless we can persuade Chub to stay behind,” suggested Roy.

“Who thought of this scheme?” asked Chub indignantly. “I guess if any one stays behind it won’t be Chub. And likewise and moreover if Chub doesn’t have enough to eat he will mutiny.”

“Then you’ll have to put yourself in irons,” said Dick, “if you’re in command.”

“I never thought of that!” Chub bit the end of the pencil and frowned. “Maybe I’d rather be the crew than the captain. If you’re captain you can’t mutiny, and I’ve always wanted to mutiny. Say, wouldn’t it be great if we could be pirates? We could put up that skull-and-cross-bones flag and board one of the Day Line steamboats. Think of the sport we could have! We’d swipe all the grub on board of her and make the officers walk the plank! Then—then we’d scuttle her!”

“How do you scuttle a boat?” asked Dick curiously.

Chub for a moment was at a loss, and glanced doubtfully at Roy. But finding no assistance there he plunged bravely.

“Well, you first get a scuttle, just an ordinary scuttle, you know; and I think you have to have a coal-shovel, too, but I’m not quite certain about that. Armed with the scuttle you descend to the—the cellar of the ship—”

“You bore holes in it,” said Roy contemptuously. “Thunder! I’m not going to ship under a captain who doesn’t know the rudiments of navigation.”

“I’m not talking navigation,” said Chub with dignity. “I’m talking piracy. Piracy is a much more advanced study. Anybody can navigate, but good pirates are few and far between, these days.”

“Oh, come on and talk sense,” begged Dick. “How much will it cost us for grub?”

“Well, let me see,” responded Chub, turning to his paper. “I suppose about two cases of eggs—But, look here, we haven’t decided how long we’re going to cruise.”

“A month,” said Roy.

“Two months,” said Dick. “Anyway, we can’t buy enough eggs at the start to last us all the time. Eggs should be fresh.”

“We’ll get eggs and vegetables as we go along,” said Roy. “What we have to have to start with are staples.”

“Mighty hard eating,” murmured Chub. “Why not use plain nails?”

This was treated by the others with contemptuous silence.

“We’ll need flour, coffee, tea, salt, rice, cheese—”

“Pepper,” interpolated Dick.

“Baking-powder, sugar, flavoring extracts—”

“Mustard,” proposed Chub, “for mustard plasters, you know.”

“And lots of things like that,” ended Roy triumphantly.

“What we need is a grocery,” sighed Chub. “Aren’t we going to have any meat at all? I have a very delicate stomach, fellows, and the doctor insists on meat three times a day. Personally, I don’t care for it much; I’m a vegetarian by conviction and early training; but one can’t go against the doctor’s orders, you know. Now, for breakfast a small rasher of bacon—”

“What’s a rasher?” Roy demanded.

“For luncheon a—er—two or three simple little chops, and for dinner a small roast of beef or lamb or a friendly steak. Those, with a few vegetables and an occasional egg, suffice my simple needs. I might mention, however, that a suggestion of sweet, such as a plum-pudding, a mince-pie or a dab of ice-cream, has always seemed to me a proper topping off to a meal, if I may use the expression.”

“You may use any expression you like,” answered Roy cruelly, “but if you think we’re going to have roasts you’ve got another guess coming to you. Why, that kitchen—”

“Galley,” corrected Chub helpfully.

—“is too small for anything bigger than a French chop!”

“When Chub gets awfully hungry,” observed Dick, “we might tie up to the shore and cook him something over the fire; have a barbecue, you know.”

“Cook a whole ox for him,” laughed Roy. “I guess that’s the only way Chub will ever get enough to eat.”

“You quit bothering about me,” said Chub scornfully, “and study seamanship. Remember you’re to be an able seaman and if you don’t come up to the standard for able seaman I’ll do things to you with a belaying-pin.”

“Isn’t he the cruel-hearted captain?” asked Dick. “I don’t believe I want to ship with him, Roy.”

“Oh, you’ll be all right. Chub won’t dare to touch you for fear he won’t get his dinner.”

“There you go again!” Chub groaned. “You fellows simply talk a subject to death. Your conversation lacks—lacks variety, diversity. If you are quite through vilifying me—”

“Doesn’t he use lovely language?” murmured Roy in an aside to Dick.

“We will now proceed with our estimate,” concluded Chub. “As I was saying, eggs—”

“I tell you what we might use,” interrupted Dick. “Have you ever seen any of this powdered egg?”

“Is this a joke?” asked Chub darkly.

“No, really! You buy it in cans. It’s eggs, just the yolks, you know, with all the moisture taken out of them. It’s a yellow powder. And when you want an omelet you just mix some milk with it and stir it up and there you are!”

But Chub was suspicious.

“And how do you make a fried egg out of it?” he asked.

“You can’t, of course, because the whites aren’t there; but—”

“Then we want none of it! An egg that you can’t fry isn’t a respectable egg. If I can’t have real eggs I’ll starve like a gentleman.”

“Well, let’s leave the eggs out of it for the present,” suggested Roy. “Let’s figure on the other things.”

“Let’s not,” said Dick, rising. “I’m going home. We’ve got lots of time to figure. Besides, the best way to do is to buy the things and let the groceryman do the figuring. We’ve got to have them, no matter what they cost. What time are we going around to see the Floating Artist?”

“Right after breakfast,” answered Chub. “You come up at about ten o’clock—”

“What’s the matter with you fellows coming to the hotel and having breakfast with me?” asked Dick.

“All right, then, luncheon. I’ll be around at ten in the morning. See if you can at least get him up by that time, Roy.”

“With a glance of scathing contempt,” murmured Chub, “our hero turned upon his heel and strode rapidly away into the fast-gathering darkness.”

But where he really strode was down the stairs, with one arm over Dick’s shoulder, while Roy brought up the rear and gently prodded them with the toe of his shoe.