Two mornings later Percy Whittington was awakened in his room at the Thorndike in Rockland by a bell-boy hammering on his door.

"What's the matter?" he inquired, stupidly.

"Five o'clock! Five o'clock! Your call!"

"Is that all?" exclaimed Percy, relieved. "I didn't know but the hotel might be on fire."

He rolled over for another nap. Half an hour later he was roused by a lively tattoo beaten on the panels by two sets of vigorous knuckles.

"Inside there, Whittington!" exhorted Lane's voice. "Wake up! This isn't any rest-cure. The Stonington boat starts in twenty minutes. You've lost your breakfast, and unless you hustle you'll make us miss the steamer. Better let us in to help you pack!"

Percy bounded out of bed and admitted Lane and Spurling. While he dressed hastily they jammed his scattered belongings into two suit-cases. Stevens joined them in the hotel office and they made a lively spurt for Tillson's Wharf, reaching the Governor Bodwell just before her plank was pulled aboard.

The party had arrived in Rockland on the late train the night before, and were to start for Stonington early that morning. Percy's drowsiness had almost thwarted their plans.

"You'll have to revise your sleeping schedule, Whittington, when we get to Tarpaulin," said Spurling.

Percy was too much interested in the view opening before him to take offense at this remark.

It was a calm, beautiful June morning. A gentle breeze barely rippled the smooth, blue water as the Governor Bodwell headed eastward out of the harbor. Behind lay the city, fringed with lazily smoking lime-kilns, each contributing its quota to the dim haze that obscured the shore-line. Leaving on their left the little light on the tip of the long granite breakwater, and presently on their right the white tower on the hummock of Owl's Head, marking the entrance of rocky Muscle Ridge Channel, they were soon plowing across the blue floor of West Penobscot Bay. Due north, Rockport Harbor opened between wooded shores, while beyond it rose the Camden Hills, monarchs of the rolling line of mountains stretching up toward Belfast.

A five-mile sail, and they were threading their way through narrow, winding Fox Island Thoroughfare, to the wharf at North Haven. Thence across East Penobscot Bay, by Deer Island Thoroughfare, to the granite wharf at Stonington, the rockiest town in the United States. Here they disembarked, and a short walk up a side-street brought them to the house of Spurling's uncle, Mr. Thomas Sprowl.

Uncle Tom was at home, confined by his rheumatism and the doctor's orders. He greeted the boys gladly.

"Got your letter last night, Jim," said he, "and I can tell you it took a weight off my mind. Since I've been sick I've nigh fretted myself to death about Tarpaulin."

He groaned, and shifted himself painfully in his chair.

"Those twinges take me unexpected," he explained. "You see," returning to his subject, "all my gear's on the island, besides those fifty sheep. Quite a risk for a man with so little as I've got. You don't know how pleased I am that you fellows are going to be on deck there this summer. You're a good, husky lot—at least most of ye." He scanned Percy a trifle dubiously. "You'll have a fine time the next three months, and you'll make some money. Wish I could go down with ye!"

He winced and stifled another groan.

"When do you plan to start?"

"Just as soon as we can arrange for our boats and stores," replied Jim.

"Good enough! You can be there to-night, slick as a whistle. Remember the Barracouta, that old power-sloop we've taken so many trips in? I've had her overhauled this spring and a new seven-and-a-half-horse engine put in her; her jibs and mainsail are in first-class shape. You'll find her at my mooring near the steamboat wharf. My Bucksport dory has just been pulled up on the ledges and painted. You'll need another boat besides, so I've arranged with Sammy Stinson to let you have his pea-pod. She'll do to lobster in. Now as to gear. You'll find over a hundred lobster-traps piled up on the sea-wall near my cabin, and there's six tubs of trawl in the fish-shed. Keep an account of whatever stuff you have to buy for repairs, and we can settle at the end of the season."

"What's the best way of handling our catch?"

"The fish you can split and salt and take over to Matinicus once a week. Your lobsters will sell easy to some smackman. Captain Ben Higgins comes east from Portland every week in the Calista; he's been in the habit of making Tarpaulin his next port of call after York Island. You'll find him square as a brick. Better buy your supplies at Matinicus; it's a strong twelve miles off, but that isn't a bad run in decent weather."

The boys rose to go.

"Well, Uncle Tom," said Jim, "the next time we see each other, I hope you'll be feeling fit as a fiddle."

"You can't wish that any harder than I do, my boy. Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot one thing. Here, Nemo!"

A fox-terrier, lying on a rug, sprang up alertly. He was white, except for two brown ears and a diamond of the same color on the top of his head.

"Better take this dog along. The mate of a St. John coaster gave him to me last fall. I call him Captain Nemo. He's death on rats; and there's some on the island this year. Must have come ashore from a schooner wrecked there in the winter. Another thing! Got any gun?"

"No."

"Then there's my ten-gauge." He indicated a double-barreled shot-gun standing in the corner. "You'll find a couple of boxes of loaded shells in that table drawer. You may want to kill some ducks in the fall. Only don't shoot Oso!"

"Oso?"

"Yes. My tame crow. I had a Spanish fellow with me a few weeks last summer, and he found the bird in a nest. Clipped one wing, so he couldn't get away from the island. Named him 'Oso'; said it meant 'The Bear.' He'll pester ye to death round the fish-house, after he gets acquainted."

Putting Nemo on a leash and taking the gun, the boys filed out. Uncle Tom called Jim back.

"I almost forgot to tell you to go to Parker's for your outfit. He'll use you right. Who's that pale-faced fellow with the tow head?"

Spurling told him briefly about Percy. Uncle Tom grunted.

"Needs salting, doesn't he? Well, he'll get it out there."

Down in Parker's general store on the main street the boys purchased their supplies. They laid in a generous stock of provisions of all sorts, and under Jim's expert direction reinforced the weak spots in their wardrobes to adapt them to the demands of the next three months. Oil-clothes, heavy under-clothing, hip boots of red rubber, white, doughnut-shaped woolen "nippers" for pulling trawls, and various other articles for convenience and comfort were added to their outfits.

Percy regarded it all in the light of a huge lark. Dressing himself in oilskins and rubber boots, he paraded up and down the store, much to the proprietor's disgust.

"Pretty fresh, isn't he?" remarked Parker to Jim. "After he's been out in two or three storms he'll find those clothes aren't so much of a joke."

The party's purchases were sent down to the steamboat wharf, to be added to the baggage already there. The boys followed, Percy swaggering superciliously along after the others, with his eternal cigarette.

Captain Nemo, towing behind Spurling on his leash, got in Percy's way, and the boy stepped on his foot. Nemo yelped, then growled and bristled.

"Get out, you cur!" exclaimed Percy, launching a kick at the beast.

"Easy, Whittington!" warned Spurling. "A dog doesn't forget. You don't want to make an enemy of him at the start."

"Enemy?" sneered Percy. "What do I care for that mangy cur! It'll teach him to keep out of my way."

Jim bit his lip, but said nothing. In a few minutes they were on the wharf.

A wiry, dark-complexioned lad of perhaps fifteen stood near the steamboat slip. He wore a faded suit of blue serge, a gray-flannel shirt with red necker-chief, and a soft black hat. His olive face and black eyes bespoke the Italian. Spurling and the others glanced at him casually; their interest was centered on assembling and loading their flotilla.

"There's the Barracouta!" said Jim, pointing to a sloop moored a hundred yards away. "And there's Stinson's pea-pod tied to her stern. That yellow dory up on the ledge must be Uncle Tom's. He said we'd find her oars and fittings at Haskell's boatshop."

Soon pea-pod and dory were being loaded beside the wharf. The young Italian had come to the string-piece, and was watching the embarkation. Jim saw that tears were trickling down his cheeks.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

The boy turned away, his breast heaving. Jim tossed the painter to Lane.

"Look out for the boat a minute, Budge! I want to find what the trouble is with that young fellow."

The lad had stepped across the wharf and was gazing sadly down into the water. Jim touched his shoulder.

"Don't you feel well, son?"

The kindly words had a surprising effect—the lad burst into tears. Jim tried to soothe him.

"There, there! It can't be so bad as all that! Tell me about it."

Little by little the boy's story came out. He was a Sicilian from a little village (un villaggio) not far from Messina. His name was Filippo Canamelli. His father was a mason (un muratore). Filippo and his older brother Frank had decided to seek their fortunes in America. Frank had gone over the year before, promising to send money back to pay for Filippo's passage. He had done so that winter, in Febbrajo. Filippo had sailed from Naples the next month, and had landed in New York in April. There he chanced upon a friend with whom his brother had left word for him to come to a certain address in Boston. But in that city he had lost all track of Frank. Searching aimlessly for him, he had drifted down to Stonington and had gone to work in the granite quarries. But he found the labor too hard and he was desperately homesick. He had given up his job the day before. What he should do and where he should go next he did not know. He talked rapidly between his sobs, while Jim listened.

When he had finished, Spurling stepped across the wharf to his waiting friends. Very briefly he rehearsed the Italian's story.

"Boys," he concluded, "what do you say to asking him to come down with us to Tarpaulin? I believe he's a clean, straight little fellow, and he can more than make up for his board by cooking and doing odd jobs. We can afford to pay him something to boot."

Before either Budge or Throppy had a chance to express an opinion Percy spoke out decidedly:

"Take that little Dago with us? I say no. You can't trust his kind. I know 'em. They're a thieving, treacherous lot, smooth to your face, but ready to stab you the minute your back's turned. I'll bet you a five-dollar bill he's got a knife hid somewhere about him. He might take a notion some night to cut all our throats."

"Whittington," said Spurling, bluntly, "under the circumstances it might be better taste for you not to speak until you've heard from the rest of us. My throat's worth just as much to me as yours is to you, and I don't feel I'd be running any great risk by inviting that boy to come along with us."

Lane and Stevens agreed.

"It's three against one, Whittington," said Jim.

He walked over to the Italian and said a few words to him. The lad's face lighted up with gratitude. Impulsively he bent and kissed Spurling's hand. Jim flushed with embarrassment as he and the stranger came back to the others.

"He'll be glad to go with us, fellows. Now let's get a move on and hustle this stuff aboard. We want to be settled at Tarpaulin before dark."

Soon all their goods were on the sloop. The dory was made fast to her stern and the pea-pod's painter tied to the dory. The expedition was ready to start. On board the Barracouta Lane and Stevens, standing side by side, faced Jim and brought their palms to their foreheads.

"Attention!" ordered Lane. "Spurling & Company! Salute!"

Jim returned the compliment with a sweep of his hand. He threw on the switch and rocked the wheel; the engine started—click-click-click.... Gathering headway, the Barracouta nosed south, dory and pea-pod trailing behind her. Before them lay an archipelago of granite islands.

"This is an old stamping-ground of mine," said Jim. "I've fished and lobstered round here so much that I know every rock and shoal for miles. That's Crotch Island on our west, with the derricks and quarries; they've taken no end of granite off it."

He held up his hand.

"Breezing up from the southwest. That'd be dead ahead if we went west of Isle au Haut as I'd planned. Guess we'll go east of it; then we can use our canvas to help us along. Steer for me, Budge, while I get sail on her!"

Soon outer jib, jumbo and mainsail were set and trimmed close, and Spurling again took the helm. The Barracouta ran southeast through Merchant's Row, a procession of rugged islets slipping by on either side; then south past Fog and York islands, with the long, high ridge of Isle au Haut walling the western horizon; down between Great Spoon and Little Spoon, past White Horse and Black Horse, toward the heaving blue of the open ocean.

A grum, melancholy note came floating over the long sea swells—Oo-oo-oo-ooh! And again, Oo-oo-oo-ooh!

"What's that!" exclaimed Percy.

"Whistling buoy south of Roaring Bull Ledge. One of our nearest neighbors. We'll hear that voice pretty often, when the wind's from the north."

They passed two miles east of the whistler, and gradually its warning blast grew fainter and fainter. On the horizon straight ahead a little black mound was slowly rising above the breaking waves. Jim swung his hand toward it.

"There's Tarpaulin! Our home for the next three months! Looks kind of small and lonesome when you're running offshore for it; but it's pretty good to make after an all-day fishing-trip. What's the matter, Whittington?"

Percy's face was somewhat white; for the last half-hour he had been strangely subdued.

"I don't feel very good," said he.

Spurling eyed him critically, then scanned the faces of the others. The Barracouta was rising and falling on the long swells in a manner decidedly disconcerting to weak stomachs. Stevens and the young Italian did not look much happier than Percy. Jim could not help smiling a little.

"Good seasick weather!" he observed, judicially. "Excuse me for laughing, boys! It's a mean thing to do, but I can't help it. I've been there myself—years ago. You'll be worse before you're better."

They were, considerably, all three, Percy in particular. For the next hour conversation dragged; but all the while Tarpaulin loomed larger and larger. To Jim it wore the aspect of an old friend, and he dilated on its features for the benefit of the others.

"You see that western end is fifty acres of pasture, sloping north; those gray dots are sheep grazing. The eastern half is just scrub evergreen. That little cove on the northeast corner's the Sly Hole; you mightn't think it, but a good-sized schooner can ride there at low tide. Pretty rocky all round. Always a surf breaking on one side or the other. Our landing-place is on the south."

Before long the Barracouta and her tow were skirting the eastern ledges. Under the island it was comparatively calm, and the seasick three felt better. Then, as they rounded a wooded promontory and turned west, it grew rough again, but only for a few minutes. Spurling steered the sloop into calm water behind the protecting elbow of another point, off which lay the half-submerged hulk of a wrecked vessel.

"Sprawl's Cove!" exclaimed Jim. "How do you like the looks of your hotel, Whittington?"