ghted by three small
windows, one in the farther end directly opposite the door, the
remaining two facing each other in the middle of the long sides. Along
the right wall on each side of the central window was built a tier of
two bunks. On Percy's left, over a wooden sink in the corner near the
door, was a rough cupboard. Next came a small, rusty stove with an oven
for baking; then, under the window, an unpainted table; and on the wall
beyond, a series of hooks from which were suspended various articles of
clothing and coils of rope. Empty soap-boxes supplied the place of
chairs.

With nose uplifted and a growing disgust on his features, Percy surveyed
the cramped, dingy room.

"How do you like it?" asked Spurling.

"You don't mean to say that five of us have got to live in this hole?"

"Nowhere else, unless you want to stay out on the beach or in the
fish-house."

"But where do we sleep?"

"There!" Jim gestured toward the wooden framework on the right wall.

Percy thrust his hand into one of the bunks.

"Why, there's no mattress or spring here! It's only a bare box!"

"That's just what it is, Whittington! You've hit the nail on the head
this time. You'll have to spread your blanket on the soft side of a pine
board. If you want something real luxurious you can go into the woods
and cut an armful of spruce boughs to strew under you."

Percy disregarded this badinage. From his view-point the situation was
too serious for jesting. It was outrageous that he, the son of John P.
Whittington, should be expected to shift for himself like an ordinary
fisherman.

"I'm not used to living in a pigpen!" he snapped. "This cabin's too dark
to be healthy; besides, it isn't clean."

A spark of temper flashed in Spurling's eyes.

"Stop right there, Whittington! This is my uncle Tom's cabin. Any place
that's been shut up for weeks seems stuffy when it's first opened.
You'll find that there are things a good deal worse than salt and tar
and fish and a few cobwebs. I want to tell you a story I read some time
ago. Once in the winter a party of Highlanders were out on a foray.
Night overtook them beside a river in the mountains, and they prepared
to camp in the open. Each drenched his plaid in the stream, rolled it
round his body, and lay down to rest in the snow, knowing that the
outside layers of cloth would soon freeze hard and form a sleeping-bag.
In the party were an old chieftain and his grandson of eighteen. The boy
we