odor of boiling coffee. Several white-fish nailed to oak
planks were browning before a bed of glowing coals, while slices of a
lake-trout were sizzling together with bits of bacon in the
frying-pan.

Supper was ready, as Joe, who superintended the culinary operations,
announced with a shout the moment Peveril's skiff grated on the beach.
Several of the fisher-huts were lighted, others had bright fires
blazing outside their doors. The boats had returned, and there was a
pleasant bustle about the little settlement.

Peveril did not mention the perplexing vision he had seen that
afternoon, though it continually haunted him, and a decided zest was
given to his work of the coming week by the thought of this mystery.
As he lay on his couch of fragrant boughs that evening planning how to
solve it, he almost forgot his unhappiness of the morning, and a
little later a new face had found its way into his dreams.

CHAPTER XIII

LOG-WRECKERS AND SMUGGLERS

There were no laggards in the camp on the following morning, for, with
the stars still shining, Peveril routed out his men from their
fragrant couches. Leaving Joe Pintaud to prepare breakfast, he and the
two Bohemians began to form their raft by rolling to the water's edge,
setting afloat, and securing such logs as lay nearest at hand.

While the wreckers were thus engaged, the fishermen appeared from
their huts and made ready for another day on the lake. They were an
ill-favored set, and Peveril was not pleased to note that they seemed
to make sneering remarks concerning the task on which he was engaged.
Beneath their jeers his own men grew so surly and restless that he was
relieved when Joe called them to breakfast.

After that all hands set forth in the skiff to work at the logs
stranded along the coast to the southward. As they pulled out of the
cove Peveril noticed that a small schooner, which he had believed
belonged to the fishermen, was still at anchor, and that the crew
lounging about her deck were of a different class from those who had
already gone out. He was about to call Joe's attention to this, when
that individual hailed the schooner, and began to carry on a lively
conversation with her men.

When they had passed beyond hearing, Peveril questioned the Canadian
concerning the strange craft, and was told that she was not a
fishing-boat, but a trader.

"What does she trade in?"

"Plenty t'ing. Cognac, seelk, dope, everyt'ing. Plenty trade, plent