lay submerged
in its waters and formed the "dangerous coral islands" alluded to by
Betty.

It pleased Elizabeth's fancy to state that her grandfather was unaware
of this creek, but that some one would tell him soon, and then he would
send men and have it well examined by divers.

To-day, however, a dire disappointment awaited them. Seated on a partly
submerged post, and holding a fishing-line in his hands, was John Brown.
The three stared at him for a minute in speechless disgust, but he
returned their stare with a nod and a small smile and looked at his
line.

"Better come home," whispered Cyril, with a lively recollection in his
mind of the big hand that had played with his collar so short a time
past.

But Betty was trying to swallow her indignation and to keep her voice
quiet.

"This is our place," she said. "This was our place before yours."

"Well," said Brown, "it's mine now."

"It isn't yours," said Betty shrilly; "it belongs to our grandfather--so
there!"

Again Brown smiled.

"Well, that's a stuffer," he said, "it belongs to _my_ grandfather."

Betty's eyes widened in horror at the new boy's depravity. "Oh, you
story!" she said in a shocked voice, then turning to the uneasy Cyril,
"Hit him, Cyril!" she said. "Hit him one in the eye for taking our place
and telling such a wicked story."

But Cyril was already widening the distance between himself and John
Brown, and a feeling of anger was beginning to stir in his small breast
against Betty for trying to mix him up in this quarrel.

"Come on home," he said, "what's the good of having a row with a fellow
like that?"

"But it's our water," said Betty, her face red with anger towards the
fisher. She stooped down and picked up a stone.

Brown turned and looked at the little group; Cyril a good distance in
the rear; and angry-faced Betty, with Nancy cowering in terror behind
her.

"Look here," he said, "I'm not going to have any of you people poaching
on my grandfather's property. You can come as far as the fence _if_ you
like, but I advise you to come no further."

Betty's stone flew through the air--many yards distant from the boy on
the post.

"Good, again," he said. "There are plenty more stones and I'm here yet."

Again Betty repeated the process, and with even worse results. She never
_could_ aim straight in all her life!

"Good shot!" said Brown, laughing again.

"Oh, Cywil, do _smash_ him," begged Betty in desperation.

"He dare