oarder was
there, standing by the petunia bed. His arms were folded and he was
thinking profoundly. As we approached, he turned toward us.

"You were right about that anchor," he said, "I should not have hauled
it in; but it was such a little anchor that I thought it would be of
more use on board as a garden hoe."

"A very little anchor will sometimes do very well," said I, cuttingly,
"when it is hooked around a tree."

"Yes, there is something in that," said he.

It was now growing late, and as our agitation subsided we began to be
hungry. Fortunately, we had everything necessary on board, and, as it
really didn't make any difference in our household economy, where we
happened to be located, we had supper quite as usual. In fact, the
kettle had been put on to boil during the checker-playing.

After supper, we went on deck to smoke, as was our custom, but there was
a certain coolness between me and our boarder.

Early the next morning I arose and went upstairs to consider what had
better be done, when I saw the boarder standing on shore, near by.

"Hello!" he cried, "the tide's down and I got ashore without any
trouble. You stay where you are. I've hired a couple of mules to tow the
boat back. They'll be here when the tide rises. And, hello! I've found
the gang-plank. It floated ashore about a quarter of a mile below here."

In the course of the afternoon the mules and two men with a long rope
appeared, and we were then towed back to where we belonged.

And we are there yet. Our boarder remains with us, as the weather is
still fine, and the coolness between us is gradually diminishing. But
the boat is moored at both ends, and twice a day I look to see if the
ropes are all right.

The petunias are growing beautifully, but the geraniums do not seem to
flourish. Perhaps there is not a sufficient depth of earth for them.
Several times our boarder has appeared to be on the point of suggesting
something in regard to them, but, for some reason or other, he says
nothing.

CHAPTER III. TREATING OF A NOVEL STYLE OF GIRL.

One afternoon, as I was hurrying down Broadway to catch the five o'clock
train, I met Waterford. He is an old friend of mine, and I used to like
him pretty well.

"Hello!" said he, "where are you going?"

"Home," I answered.

"Is that so?" said he. "I didn't know you had one."

I was a little nettled at this, and so I said, somewhat brusquely
perhaps:

"But you must have known I lived