es,
went into the camp, and reappeared with his sweater. Going down to the
ledges, he pulled off a big armful of rockweed. This he stuffed into
the sweater, and tied it together, making a close bundle. The others
watched him curiously.

"What are you going to do with that?" inquired Lane.

Percy smiled, but there was a glitter of determination in his eyes.

"I'll tell you some time," was all the reply he vouchsafed.

Taking the bundle, now somewhat larger than a football, he climbed the
steep path at the end of the bank, and started for the woods.

"I'll be home before supper," he flung back as he disappeared beyond the
crest of the bluff.

In less than an hour he was back, bringing the sweater minus the
rockweed. His face was flushed, and streaked with lines where the
perspiration had run down it, and he was breathing hard. Evidently he
had been through some sort of strenuous physical exercise.

"It's all right, boys," he said, in response to their chaffing. "Just a
little secret between me and myself. No, I'm not trying to reduce the
size of my head. Later on you'll know all about it."

And with that they had to be content.

XIII

FOG-BOUND

Dog-Days began about the 20th of July. Before that the dwellers in Camp
Spurling had experienced occasional spells of fog, but nothing very
dense or long-continued. Now they got a taste of the real thing. They
were dressing fish on the _Barracouta_ one afternoon when a cold wind
struck from the southeast.

Spurling held up his hand.

"We're in for it!" said he. "Feel that? Right off the Banks! In less
than an hour we'll need a compass to get ashore in the dory."

He was so nearly right that there was no fun in it. The wind hauled more
to the east, and in its wake came driving a gray, impenetrable wall. The
ocean vanished. The points on each side of the cove were swallowed up.
Quickly disappeared the cove itself, the beach, the camp and fish-house,
and the bank beyond them. The sloop was blanketed close in heavy mist.

Jim made a pretense of scooping a handful out of the air and shaping it
like a snowball.

"Here you go, Budge!" he exclaimed. "Straight to third! Put it on him!
Fresh from the factory in the Bay of Fundy! If this holds on until
midnight, we won't be able to see outside our eyelids when we start
trawling; there's no moon."

"Will you go, if it's thick as it is now?" inquired Lane.

"Sure! Here's where the compass comes in. If we stayed a