ding diving turtles."

"Yes, Dr. Crafts," the boy replied; "he told me a lot about it."

"I thought so," was the reply. "I remember some magazine articles he
did. And I suppose you thought you wanted to take a ride?"

"I'm a good swimmer, sir," Colin answered a little proudly.

"You mean you can swim," the Deputy Commissioner responded a little
sharply, for being modest himself, he disliked any appearance of
boasting.

"Yes, sir," the boy said; "that was what I meant."

"Well, there's no turtle-riding at Beaufort. If you knew a little more
about these subjects, you wouldn't make such breaks, whether you have
been reading up on them or not. The leather turtle, the big one on which
men dive by holding on to the shell, is an aquatic species and never
comes into brackish water. The terrapin lives in the mud, and is only to
be found in marshy places. If you want to go turtle-riding for your
vacation, why, go ahead, no one's going to stop you, but you can hardly
do that while officially or even unofficially acting as an assistant at
Beaufort. It's almost as far from Beaufort to the Florida Keys as it is
from here to Hudson's Bay."

"I hadn't realized that, sir," Colin answered, surprised.

"Very few people do," was the reply. "Why, the State of Florida alone is
as long as the distance from New York to Nova Scotia, or Washington to
Detroit. You can't go after leather-turtle from Beaufort unless you've
got--not seven-leagued boots, but seven-leagued fins."

"I'm sorry I bothered you about it, Dr. Crafts," the boy answered. "I
really hadn't given the distances much thought."

"Wait a bit," said the Deputy Commissioner, as the boy turned to go. "I
don't want you to feel badly about your summer. What do you know about
mussels?"

"Very little, sir," the boy answered; "hardly anything."

"Let me tell you a story about them," the Deputy Commissioner said,
smiling as the boy's face lighted up at the word "story." "Seven or
eight centuries ago," his friend began--"that is, if you want to hear
it?"

"Oh, yes, sir," came the reply.

"That's a long way back--a small trading-vessel was wrecked in the Bay
of Biscay on the west coast of France, near the little village of
Esnandes. All hands were lost except one sailor, an Irishman, called
Walton."

"Sure to be an Irishman who got ashore," commented the boy.

"This was a particularly ingenious son of Erin," the other continued.
"Although he did not speak a word of French,