Throppy stepped out of the fish-house at the close of a breezy afternoon and started for the camp to wash up. The morning's catch had been split and salted; it just filled a hogshead. He glanced seaward at the white-capped squalls chasing one another over the broad blue surface. Three steps from the building he halted in surprise.

"Hulloo! Who's that?"

Round the eastern point came a small sloop. Evidently she had met with disaster, for the end of her boom was broken and dragging and her mainsail hung loosely. It was easily apparent that she had made a safe harbor none too early.

Attracted by Throppy's exclamation, the other boys joined him, and together they watched the strange craft limp into the cove. As she came nearer they could see that she was old and dilapidated. Her brown canvas was frayed and rotten; tag-ends of rope hung here and there; and her battered sides were badly in need of a coat of fresh paint.

"Built in the year one!" was Jim's verdict. "Almost too old to be knocking round so far offshore!"

Gliding slowly into the cove, she lost headway not far from the Barracouta. A small black dog began to run to and fro on board and bark excitedly. The man at the helm, evidently her only crew, hurried stiffly forward, let the jib and mainsail run down, and dropped the anchor. Then the boys were treated to a fresh surprise.

A shaggy white cat leaped from the standing-room upon the roof of the cabin. A Maltese followed her. Then another, jet black, sprang into view. The three rubbed about the legs of the man as he made his cable fast. Nemo, roused from his nap under the stove, ran down to the water's edge and began an interchange of ferocious greetings with the strange canine; while the cats, lining up in a row on the side, arched their backs and spit fiercely.

The boys viewed this menagerie with amazement.

"Barnum & Bailey's come to town!" muttered Budge.

His craft safely moored, the man drew in a small punt which was towing astern and stepped into it. The dog followed.

"Back, Oliver!" ordered his master.

Grasping the animal by the scruff of the neck, he tossed him into the standing-room. Then he slowly sculled the punt to the beach. Jim walked down to meet him.

The stranger was of medium height, and apparently over sixty years old. His beard and mustache were gray. He wore a black slouch-hat and a Prince Albert coat, threadbare and shiny, but neatly brushed. He stepped briskly ashore, with shoulders well set back. His dark eyes carried a suggestion of melancholy, and his face was deeply lined.

"I've dropped in to make repairs," said he. "Broke my main boom in a squall about a mile north of the island, and thought I might get some one here to help me fix it."

"You did right to come," returned Jim. "We'll be glad to do anything we can, Mr.—"

"Thorpe," supplied the other. "That isn't my name, but it'll do as well as any."

"Mine's Spurling," said Jim.

They shook hands and walked up to the camp. There Jim introduced the newcomer to the other boys. Supper was about to be put on the table and the stranger was invited to share it. He accepted, and ate heartily, almost ravenously.

"Seems good to taste somebody's cooking besides your own," he apologized. "When you've summered and wintered yourself, year in and year out, the thing gets pretty monotonous and you almost hate the sight of food."

"Then you're alone most of the time?" ventured Lane.

"Not most of the time, but all the time."

The boys would have liked to inquire further, but courtesy forbade, and their guest did not volunteer anything more regarding himself. He shifted the conversation to Nemo.

"Bright-looking dog you've got there!" he commented.

"Yes," said Jim. "And he's fully as bright as he looks. I see you've a dog and some cats aboard."

"Yes; and they're good company—better, in some ways, than human beings, for they can't talk back. The dog's Oliver Cromwell; and the cats I've named Joan of Arc, Marie Antoinette, and Queen Victoria. I must go aboard and give 'em their suppers."

He rose from the table.

"Come back again in an hour," invited Jim, "and we'll have some music. We've a violin here."

"I'll be more than glad to come," returned their guest. "Music's something I don't have a chance to hear very often."

Walking down the beach, he sculled out to his sloop. His animals greeted him, Oliver Cromwell vociferously, the cats with a more reserved welcome.

"What d'you make of him?" asked Percy. "Odd stick, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Jim, meditatively, "but he seems like a gentleman. What I can't understand is why he's cruising along the coast alone in that old Noah's ark. It doesn't seem natural. Besides, it's dangerous business for a man of his age. Well, it's no concern of ours. Let's give him a pleasant evening."

Promptly at the end of the allotted hour the stranger came ashore again.

"Got the children all in bed for the night," said he. "Now I can make you a little visit with a clear conscience."

He spoke faster and more cheerfully than he had done before. The melancholy in his bearing had vanished. Jim thought he detected a slight odor of liquor about him, but he could not be sure. They all sat down together, and Throppy brought out his violin.

"What shall it be, boys?" he asked, after a preliminary tuning up.

"Give us 'The Wearing of the Green,'" suggested Lane.

Soon the wailing strains of the familiar Irish melody were breathing through the cabin. "Kathleen Mavourneen" followed, and the stranger sat as if fascinated. At "'Way Down Upon the Suwanee River" he dropped his head in his hands and his shoulders shook.

"Something livelier, Throppy," said Jim.

Stevens started in on "Dixie." As the first spirited notes came dancing off the violin their guest raised his head quickly, and before the selection was finished his cheerfulness had returned.

"Can you play 'The Campbells Are Coming'?" he inquired.

As Stevens responded with the stirring Scotch air Thorpe rose to his feet and began whistling a clear, melodious accompaniment. The notes trilled out, pure and bird-like. The boys broke into hearty applause when he finished. Their approval emboldened him to ask a favor.

"I used to play a little myself," he said; "but it's been years since I've had a bow in my hand. Would you be willing for me to see if I can recall anything? I'll be careful of your instrument."

"Sure!" cordially returned Stevens.

He handed violin and bow to Thorpe. The latter took them almost reverently. Tucking the violin under his chin, he drew the bow back and forth, at first with a lingering, uncertain touch, but soon with an increasing firmness and accuracy that bespoke an old-time skill. Gradually he gathered confidence, and a bubbling flood of liquid music gushed from the vibrating strings.

At first he played a medley of fragments, short snatches from old tunes, each shading imperceptibly into the one that followed, blending into a whole that chorded with the night and sea and wind and the driftwood fire crackling in the little stove in the lonely island cabin. The boys sat motionless, listening, brooding over the visions the music opened to each. They had never heard such music before. Even Percy had to acknowledge that, as he leaned breathlessly forward, eyes glued to the dancing bow.

One final, long, slow sweep, and the last notes died away, mellow and silvery as a distant bell. The musician raised his bowed head and looked about.

"More!" begged the boys.

With a nod of assent, he began "Annie Laurie." His audience sat spellbound. "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton" followed; and he closed with "Auld Lang Syne." Then he laid the violin carefully on the table and burst into tears.

For two or three minutes nobody spoke. Filippo was weeping silently; Percy cleared his throat; and even the other three were conscious of a slight huskiness. The evening was turning out differently from what they had anticipated.

Brushing away his tears, the stranger controlled himself with a strong effort.

"I don't know what you'll think of me, boys," said he, shamefacedly. "I'm sorry to have made such an exhibition of myself. But music always did affect me; besides, it's wakened some old memories. Guess I'd better be going now."

He half rose.

"Stay awhile longer," urged Jim; and the others seconded the invitation.

Thorpe sank back on his box.

"You won't have to persuade me very hard. Evenings alone on the Helen are pretty long."

His eye fell on Percy's Æneid on the shelf beside the window.

"Aha! Who's reading Virgil?"

"I am," confessed Percy. "Making up college conditions."

The stranger looked at him keenly.

"Conditions, eh? Guess you don't need to have any, unless you want 'em."

"Found you at home there, Perce!" laughed Lane.

"I don't propose to have any more after this summer," averred Percy, stoutly.

"Stick to that!" encouraged Thorpe. "There's enough have 'em that can't help it."

Taking down the volume, he opened it at the beginning of the first book, and began reading aloud, dividing the lines into feet:

"Arma virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris Italiam, fato profugus, Laviniaque venit.

"Wouldn't want to say how long it's been since I last set eyes on that. Probably you boys notice that I use the English pronunciation of Latin instead of the continental; it's what I had when I was in college."

"What was your college?" inquired Percy.

Melancholy darkened Thorpe's face again.

"Never mind about that," he replied, a little brusquely.

Glancing round the cabin, he caught sight of Throppy's wireless outfit; soon the two were engaged in an interested discussion on wave-lengths and the effect of atmospheric disturbances. Later he was talking over the lobster law with Jim, and life-insurance with Lane. He seemed to be equally at home on all subjects.

Eight o'clock came before they realized it. The stranger's face suddenly grew somber.

"Boys," said he, "I must be going now. You've given me a mighty pleasant evening and I sha'n't forget it right away. You'll think it a strange thing for me to say, but the best return I can make for your kindness is to tell you something about myself."

He glanced at Percy.

"You asked me what my college was. I'm not going to answer that question, but I'll say this: At the end of its catalogue of graduates you'll find a page headed 'Lost Alumni,' and my name—my real name—is there. It's a list of those whose addresses are unknown to the college authorities, men who have dropped out, gone back, disappeared. Nobody knows what's become of 'em, and by and by nobody cares. That's just what I am—a lost alumnus! And it's better for me to stay lost!"

With trembling hands he picked up a worm-eaten stick beside the stove.

"I'm like this stick now—only driftwood! Once I was young and sound and strong as any one of you—just as this wood was once. Now—"

Lifting the stove cover, he flung the stick into the fire; a burst of sparks shot up.

"That's all it's fit for; and it's all I'm fit for, too! Name ... character ... friends ... home ... all gone—all gone!"

He took a step toward the door, then halted.

"I've told you this because it may do some one of you some good while there's time. Don't throw your lives away, as I've thrown away mine!"

The sober, startled faces of his hearers apparently recalled him to himself.

"Sorry I spoke so freely," he apologized. "Forget it, boys, and forget me! Everybody else has. Good night!"

He opened the door.

"Won't you stop ashore with us?" invited Spurling. "We can fix you up a bunk."

"No; I must go aboard. My dog and cats would be lonesome; wouldn't sleep a wink without me. They're mighty knowing animals."

He went out and closed the door. The boys looked at one another. Lane was the first to speak.

"What d'you suppose was the matter with him? Must have been something pretty bad to make him feel that way. But, say! Didn't he make that violin talk? Never heard anything like it before!"

That night the boys went to bed feeling unusually serious. Percy, in particular, did not get to sleep until late. The stranger's remarks had given him much food for thought.

The next morning, before sunrise, the barking of Oliver Cromwell and a thin, blue smoke curling from the stovepipe of the Helen told that the lost alumnus was preparing breakfast. Jim and Percy had started off with their trawls some time before. Stevens volunteered to help their visitor repair his boom, so Filippo went out with Lane to haul the lobster-traps.

All the boys were back at noon, when Thorpe, repairs made, waved farewell and sailed slowly out of the cove, dog and cats manning the side of the Helen, as if for a last salute. Throppy told of his morning's work.

"Tried to pay me for what I did; but of course I wouldn't take anything. You might not think it, but, inside, that old boat is as neat as wax. Got a good library on board, too; books there that were beyond me. All the current magazines. Easy to see how he keeps up to date about everything."

At two o'clock that afternoon in popped the Calista in quest of lobsters. The boys told her captain about their strange caller. Higgins laughed shortly.

"What—old Thorpe! Oh yes, I've known of him these twenty years! Mystery? Not so much as you might think. It's the same mystery that's ruined a lot of other men—John Barleycorn! Thorpe showed up from nobody knows where about a quarter of a century ago; and ever since then he's been banging up and down the coast in that old boat. They say he's a college graduate gone to the bad from drink."

"What supports him?" asked Lane. "Does he fish?"

"Not more than enough to supply himself and his live stock. I've heard he's got wealthy relatives who furnish him with all the money he needs. He likes to live in this style, and they like to have him. He's out of their way, and they're out of his. In the winter he ties the sloop up in some harbor and stops aboard."

"He seemed to be sober enough last night," said Jim.

"Yes; when he's all right you couldn't ask for a man to be more peaceable or gentlemanly; but when he's in liquor, look out! I passed him a month ago one squally day off Monhegan, running before the wind, sheet fast, shot to the eyes, and yelling like a wild man. It's a dangerous trick to make that sheet fast on a squally day, or on any day at all, for that matter. Some time he'll do it once too often. Well, as the saying goes, 'When rum's in, wit's out!' How's lobsters?"