cts that they had scarcely as yet admitted
even to themselves. There was scarcely one among them whose account
with Bill Boughton was fully satisfied, and now that this mainstay was
gone the situation took on an entirely different aspect.

For some minutes no one spoke. Then an old man, bearded to the waist,
got upon his feet.

"I've seen some pretty hard times on this island," he said, "but none
like this here. I've thought it over some, and I'd like to make a
suggestion. My son Will is over on the back of the island pickin'
dulce. The market fer that is good--he's even got ten cents a pound
this summer. This is the month of August and winter is consid'able
ways off. How about all hands turnin' to an' pickin' dulce?"

This idea was received in courteous silence. There were men there who
had spent their summers reaping the harvest of salty, brown kelp from
the rocks at low tide, and they knew how impractical the scheme was.
Although the island exported yearly fifteen thousand dollars' worth of
the strange stuff, it was plain that should all the men devote
themselves to it the return would by no means measure up to the
labor.

One after another, then, the fishermen got to their feet and discussed
this project. In this cause of common existence embarrassment was
forgotten and tongues were loosed that had never before addressed a
public gathering.

A proposition was put forward that the islanders should dispute the
porpoise-spearing monopoly of the Quoddy Indians that were already
sailing across the channel for their annual summer's sport, but this
likewise met with defeat.

A general exodus of men to the sardine canning-factories in Lubec and
Eastport was suggested, and met with some favor until it was pointed
out that the small sardine herring had fallen off vastly in numbers,
and that the factories were hard put to it to find enough work for
their regular employees.

Self-consciousness and restraint were forgotten in this struggle for
the common preservation, and above the buzz of general intense
discussion there rose always the voice of some speaker with an idea or
suggestion.

Code Schofield had come to the meeting with Pete Ellinwood and Jimmie
Thomas, both dory mates at different times. They sat fairly well
forward, and Code, glancing around during the proceedings, had caught
a friendly greeting from Elsa Mallaby, who, with some of her old
girlhood friends, sat farther back.

The solemn occasion for and