s lonesome," says I, "and there's room for another."

"I've been wondering if I couldn't," says Vee.

"You can," says I. "Lemme help you over."

Gives me a chance for a little hand squeeze and another close glimpse
into them gray eyes. I don't make out anything definite, though. But
as she passes forward she puckers her lips saucy and whispers,
"Pepper!" in my ear. I guess, after all, when you're doin'
confidential description you don't want to stick too close to facts.
Makin' it all stained glass window stuff is safer.

I goes back to Mabel and lets her demand more details. She's just full
of romance, Mabel is; not so full, though, that it interferes with her
absorbin' a few eats now and then. Between answerin' questions I'm
kept busy handin' out crackers, oranges, and doughnuts, openin' the
olive bottle, and gettin' her drinks of water. Reg'lar Consumers'
League, Mabel. I never run a sausage stuffin' machine; but I think I
could now.

"You're such a handy young man to have around," says Mabel, after I've
split a Boston cracker and lined it with strawb'ry jam for her; "so
much better than Tucker."

"That's my aim," says I, "to make you forget Tucker."

Yes, I was gettin' some popular with Mabel, even if I was in wrong with
Vee. They seems to be havin' quite a chatty time of it, Payne showin'
her how to steer, and lettin' her salute passin' launches, and
explainin' how the engine worked. As far as them two went, Mabel and
me was only so much excess baggage.

"Why, we're clear out beyond Squirrel!" exclaims Mabel at last. "Ask
Payne where we're going to stop for our picnic. I'm getting hungry."

"Oh, yes," says Payne, "we must be thinking about landing. I had
planned to run out to Damariscove; but that looks like a fog bank
hanging off there. Perhaps we'd better go back to Fisherman's Island,
after all. Tell her Fisherman's."

I couldn't see what the fog bank had to do with it--not then, anyway.
Why, it was a peach of a day,--all blue sky, not a sign of a cloud
anywhere, and looked like it would stay that way for a week. He keeps
the Vixen headed out to sea for awhile longer, and then all of a sudden
he circles short and starts back.

"Fog!" he shouts over his shoulder to Mabel.

"Oh, bother!" says Mabel. "I hate fog. And it is coming in too."

Yes, that bank did seem to be workin' its way toward us, like a big,
gray curtain that's bein' shoved from the back drop to the front of the
stag