he North
Star. Under it he knew lay Isle au Haut, now a low, black ridge on the
horizon, east of Saddleback Light.

Percy settled himself on the thwart, steeled his muscles, and gripped
the oars harder. Short as his inaction had been, he could see that the
tide had swept him back a trifle. It was going to be no picnic, that
pull in to Eastern Head!

He threw all his strength into his arms, and again the boat made headway
against the tide. By degrees Tarpaulin Island fell back. Before long it
lay behind him--as he planned, forever. His anger still burned hot
against Spurling and his associates.

"Treated me like a dog, the beggars! Well, who cares for 'em? Let 'em
sweat out their dollars catching fish and lobsters! I'll get my cash
some easier way."

The thought of money brought back the memory of his father, and with it
a faint uneasiness. Up to this time, engrossed in making his escape,
Percy had not troubled to look beyond the immediate future. Isle au Haut
had bounded his mental as well as his optical horizon. But after that
what?

Stonington ... Rockland ... Boston ... New York ... two months of living
on his acquaintances ... and then--John P. Whittington!

Percy could picture the expression on the millionaire's features when he
learned that his son had broken his promise and sneaked away from
Tarpaulin Island, like a thief in the night. That grim face with its
bulldog jaw was one any erring son well might dread, and particularly
such a son as he had thus far been. John Whittington had told Percy
plainly that the island was his last chance, and, whatever faults the
millionaire might have, he was not the man to break his word.

For the young deserter it was liable to be out of the frying-pan and
into the fire with a vengeance.

Percy had been in the frying-pan three weeks; life there, though not
pleasant, had been endurable.

At any rate, he had seen the worst of it; but for his wounded pride, he
could have schooled himself to withstand its hardships, for they would
have been only temporary.

What the fire might have in store for him he did not know; but one thing
he did know, and that was John P. Whittington!

Not unimaginably, there might be far worse places than Tarpaulin Island.

The lad's elation at his easily earned freedom vanished. The snap and
vim went out of his strokes, and his speed slackened perceptibly. Though
he still dragged doggedly at the oars, there was no longer any heart in
his p