ulling.

Westward, almost in line with the beacon on Matinicus Rock, grew a fairy
pyramid of twinkling lights--the Portland boat, bound for St. John.
Larger, higher, brighter, nearer, until they burned, a sparkling
triangle of white and red and green. Soon the steamer crossed his bow
not far to the north. He could hear the rush of foam and the throbbing
of her screw. Gradually she passed eastward and blended again with the
horizon.

Slower and weaker fell Percy's blades, until the pea-pod was barely
moving. The ebb, still running against the boat with undiminished
strength, almost sufficed to hold her stationary. But, though the lad's
muscles were relaxed and listless, a fierce battle was being fought out
in his troubled brain.

Should he keep on or should he go back?

Go back? Return to two months more of the uncongenial drudgery from
which he had been so glad to escape? Besides, he could hardly hope to
drag the pea-pod up on the beach and regain his bunk without attracting
the notice of somebody in the cabin. He could imagine the talk of the
others when he was out of hearing.

"Started to run away, but got cold feet and sneaked back again. Hadn't
the sand to carry it through! We'd better sack him when the four weeks
are up."

His futile midnight sally would only result in added humiliation.

But what if he kept on? Already more than an hour had passed. It would
not be many minutes now before the tide would turn. The ebb would cease
running out, and the flood would set just as strongly the other way,
bearing him in toward Isle au Haut. To row with it would be an easy
matter.

Head Harbor before daybreak. Boston or New York the morning after. Two
months or more of easy living in the same old way. After that the
deluge, _alias_ John P. Whittington.

Isle au Haut or Tarpaulin Island, which should it be? Beads of sweat
started on Percy's face as he wrestled out his problem.

Far more was involved than the mere question of going north or south. He
had come to the parting of the ways. His whole life hung in the balance.
Floating in that frail skiff on the uneasy swell, he realized that
everything depended on the direction in which he swung the prow. His
future lay in his oar-blades.

Under the horizon north and west stretched the coast. He closed his eyes
and saw a vision of the feverish city life he knew and loved so
well--lighted streets thronged with gay crowds, human banks between
which flowed rivers of ve