looked at each other, their arms folded behind them, their toes
digging the gravel.

"At sea," said Beppo, and Mac slapped his knee.

"Eh?" I said, blankly, for I had not caught the phrase.

"We are a lot of duffers!" muttered Mac. "The man is a sailor and he's
at sea."

"Oh!" I said, and for a moment I felt downcast at the tame ending of our
investigation. "When is he coming home, Beppo?"

"I dunno," he answered, indifferently. "What do you want to know for?"

Here was a quandary. I was caught fairly and squarely prying into
another person's business. I don't know why, but these two little chaps,
with their clean-cut unembarrassed features, their relentless stare and
their matter-of-fact outlook upon life, seemed to have in a supreme
degree the faculty of inspiring and snubbing curiosity. I think the
others, since I had borne the brunt of the ordeal, sympathized with me,
for they were silent. I stared at our visitors in some perplexity; and
then in the most exasperating manner they turned away and ran across our
ground to a huge hollow stump near the forest path and began to play.

"Pretty tough, eh?" murmured Mac, rocking himself. I began to wonder
whether I ought to have been more indignant about that reflection upon
my height. Bill looked up and twisted round so that she could see what
they were doing.

"What are they playing?" she whispered. No one answered. I was thinking.
Sailor--sixty dollars a month rent--Italian wife--letters from New York.

"I will see," I said, and stepping down I walked across to the stump.

I was fully resolved to sift the matter as far as I could to the bottom.
I was aware of the disadvantage of being a small man, for I saw that I
should be compelled to climb up to look into the stump. But with small
stature is often joined a certain tenacious, terrier-like fortitude. I
advanced with firmness.

Ben was nowhere to be seen. Beppo, a stick on his shoulder, stood in a
statuesque pose in front of the stump.

"G'way!" he hissed, as I came up.

"What's the game?" I whispered.

"Indians. I'm on guard. G'way!" he whispered back.

"Is this the fort?" I searched for a foothold.

"Yep. This is the middle-watch. What'd you butt in for?"

I scrambled up and looked. Just below me, lying on a soft bed of
mouldering tinder wood and leaves, was Benvenuto Cellini Carville,
simulating profound slumber. As I clung there, a somewhat undignified
figure, he opened one eye.

"Let me play too