ill win second
race," "Says he can't lose day after to-morrow," "I wonder what the
boy has got up his sleeve that makes him so sure he will win?"

At first Code merely ascribed these recorded sayings of Nat Burns to
youthful disappointment and a sportsmanlike determination to do better
next time. But not for long. He remembered as though it had been
yesterday the look with which Nat had favored him when he finally came
ashore beaten, and the sullen resentment with which he greeted any
remarks concerning the race.

There was no sportsmanlike determination about him! Code quickly
changed his point of view. How could Nat be so sure he was going to
win?

The thing was ridiculous on the face of it. The fifty-year-old _May_
had limped in half an hour ahead of the thirty-year-old _M. C. Burns_
after a race of fifteen miles. How, then, could Nat swear with any
degree of certainty that he would win the second time. It was well
known that the _M. C. Burns_ was especially good in heavy weather, but
how could Nat ordain that there would be just the wind and sea he
wanted?

The thing was absurd on the face of it, and, besides, silly
braggadocio, if not actually malicious. And even if it were malicious,
Code thanked Heaven that the race had not been sailed, and that he
had been spared the exhibition of Nat's malice. He had escaped that
much, anyway.

However, from motives of general caution, Code decided to take the
book with him. Nat had evidently forgotten it, and he felt sure he
would get off the ship with it in his possession. Now, as he drew near
to St. Andrews, he put it for the last time inside the lining of his
coat, and fastened that lining together with pins, of which he always
carried a stock under his coat-lapel.

As Schofield had not forgotten the old log of the _M. C. Burns_,
neither had he forgotten the threat he made to Nat that he would try
his best to escape, and would defy his authority at every turn.

He had tried to fulfil his promise to the letter. Twice he had removed
one of the windows before the alert guard detected him, and once he
had nearly succeeded in cutting his way through the two-inch planking
of his ceiling before the chips and sawdust were discovered, and he
was deprived of his clasp-knife.

Every hour of every day his mind had been constantly on this business
of escape. Even during the reading, to which he fled to protect his
reason, it was the motive of every chapter, and he would drop