you can do. I'm going to give you one
last chance to make a man of yourself. You've three months to make good
in and I expect you to do it. You've got to make up those conditions and
earn your salt to show there's some excuse for your being alive. Your
whole life hangs on the way you spend the next hundred days. I start for
the West Coast to-morrow, and won't be back till fall. I want you to
write me--if you feel like it. Will you go?"

The strains of a violin came floating in through the open window. The
academy bell struck ten long, lingering strokes.

"Well, what do you say? I'm waiting."

Percy swallowed hard.

"I'll go."

II

A FRESH START

Two mornings later Percy Whittington was awakened in his room at the
Thorndike in Rockland by a bell-boy hammering on his door.

"What's the matter?" he inquired, stupidly.

"Five o'clock! Five o'clock! Your call!"

"Is that all?" exclaimed Percy, relieved. "I didn't know but the hotel
might be on fire."

He rolled over for another nap. Half an hour later he was roused by a
lively tattoo beaten on the panels by two sets of vigorous knuckles.

"Inside there, Whittington!" exhorted Lane's voice. "Wake up! This isn't
any rest-cure. The Stonington boat starts in twenty minutes. You've lost
your breakfast, and unless you hustle you'll make us miss the steamer.
Better let us in to help you pack!"

Percy bounded out of bed and admitted Lane and Spurling. While he
dressed hastily they jammed his scattered belongings into two
suit-cases. Stevens joined them in the hotel office and they made a
lively spurt for Tillson's Wharf, reaching the _Governor Bodwell_ just
before her plank was pulled aboard.

The party had arrived in Rockland on the late train the night before,
and were to start for Stonington early that morning. Percy's drowsiness
had almost thwarted their plans.

"You'll have to revise your sleeping schedule, Whittington, when we get
to Tarpaulin," said Spurling.

Percy was too much interested in the view opening before him to take
offense at this remark.

It was a calm, beautiful June morning. A gentle breeze barely rippled
the smooth, blue water as the _Governor Bodwell_ headed eastward out of
the harbor. Behind lay the city, fringed with lazily smoking lime-kilns,
each contributing its quota to the dim haze that obscured the
shore-line. Leaving on their left the little light on the tip of the
long granite breakwater, and presently on their right