that no person has any
right in this boat but myself, unless I invite them; and I'll inform you
right now that this is the last trip you'll ever take in her with my
permission."

"Is that so?" sneered Paul.

"That's so--and you can make the best of it."

"Well, who wants to go out in your old tub?" he burst forth. "Goodness
knows, I don't. But I'm going ashore right now and you can come in when
you like."

He started to untie the painter. Somehow his perversity made me furious.

"Drop it!" I repeated; "you're not going to leave this sloop till I
do--unless you swim ashore."

"Well, you just try stopping me," he snarled, his temper getting the
better for the moment of his usual caution. Paul was a bigger and
heavier, as well as an older fellow than I; but he had never dared try
fisticuffs with me.

I sprang up and let the tiller bang. Luckily there was so little wind
that the sloop took no harm. "Get away from there!" I cried.

"I tell you I am going ashore now."

"You're not."

"I am; and it won't be healthy for you to try to stop me, Clint Webb."

I know very well that this is a bad way to begin my story; I expect you
will be disgusted with me right at the start. But what am I to do? I
have started out to narrate the incidents which occurred and the various
changes that have come into my life since this very September evening;
and truth compels me to begin with this quarrel. For from this time
dated the purpose which inspired my future life.

So, I hope that the reader will bear with me, even though I introduce
much the worse side of my character first. Facts are stubborn things,
and I have in this introduction to set down some very stubborn and
unpleasant facts.

I sprang up, as I say, and left the tiller, and as Paul seemed to have
no intention of obeying me, I advanced upon him threateningly. We were
both enraged.

"Take your hand off that rope," said I, earnestly. "Get away! I mean
it."

His reply was a foul word. His eyes were blazing and he grew dark under
his skin like his father, as his wrath rose. I had always believed that
there was Indian blood in the veins of Mr. Chester Downes. I was so near
Paul that I had to step back to gather force for a blow, and as I
retreated he suddenly kicked me. It was a mean trick--a foul blow and
worthy of Paul Downes. Had I not stepped back as I did he might have
broken my shin bone, for he wore heavy boots. As it was, the toe of his
boot caught me just be