and
forty beauties of sea-trout in the bottom of her boat. She handed me
out a dozen.

"Guess that'll make a square meal for you and Jake."

Then she looked at me and laughed, showing her teeth. "Clean forgot,"
she said. "A swimming man ain't no good at carrying fish."

"Why not?" I asked.

I picked up some loose cord from her boat, strung the trout by the
gills and tied them securely round my waist.

She watched me archly and a thought went flashing through my mind that
it did not need the education of the city to school a woman in the art
of using her eyes.

"Guess I'll see you off the premises first, before I go."

"All right!" said I.

We crossed the Island once more, and I got on to a rock which dipped
sheer and deep into the sea.

She held out her hand and smiled in such a bewitching way that, had I
not been a well-seasoned bachelor of almost twenty-five years'
standing, I should have lost my heart to her completely.

"Good-bye! Mister,--Mister Bremner. Safe home."

"Good-bye! Miss--Rita."

"Sure you can make it?" she asked earnestly.

"Yes!" I cried, and plunged in.

As I came up, I turned and waved my hand. She waved in answer, and
when I looked again she was gone.

I struck swiftly for the wharf, allowing for the incoming tide.

When I was half-way across, I heard the sound of oars and, on taking a
backward glance, I saw Rita making toward me.

"Hello!" I cried, when she drew near. "What's the matter?"

A little shame-faced, she bent over. "I got scared," she said timidly,
"scared you mightn't make it. Sure you don't want me to row you in?"

The boat was alluring, but my pride was touched.

"Quite sure," I answered. "I'm as fresh as the trout round my waist.
Thanks all the same."

"All right! Guess I was foolish. You ain't a man; you're a porpoise."

With this half-annoyed sally, she swung the bow of the boat and rowed
away.

CHAPTER XI

An Informative Visitor

That afternoon, prompt at two o'clock, a whistle sounded beyond the
point and, shortly afterwards, the steamboat _Siwash_, north bound,
entered the Bay.

Jake and I were waiting at the end of the wharf, seated in a large,
wide-beamed, four-oared boat, with Mike, the dog,--still eyeing me
suspiciously,--crouching between his master's feet.

We had a raft and half a dozen small rowing boats of all shapes and
conditions, strung out, Indian file, from our stern. Every available
thing in Golden Crescen