ouse-boat. Jake was to come through the creek in his
motor boat and I was to meet him. But I was foiled--foiled by the Boy
Scouts. I heard voices in the distance and pretty soon I recognized my
father's voice and the voice of Skeezeks Blakeley and the uproarious clamor
and frantic utterances of Pee-wee Harris. I can hear it now, it haunts me
night and day.

I didn't wait to meet those unexpected guests.

I didn't know that the house-boat was to become their's on an extended
loan. I sneaked out and beat it through the marsh grass for all I was
worth.

I love, I love, I love my home,
But, oh, you yellow perch!

So now you know of my miraculous escape from the boy scouts and the awful
peril I averted of drinking tea and playing tennis. I am now approaching
the darkest scenes of that frightful adventure.

After my escape from the boy scouts and my honored parent, I went fishing
off the bleak and barren coast of Coney Island. I was swept by ocean
breezes and the smoke from Jake Holden's pipe. In the distance we beheld
the wild and rugged scenery of Luna Park. I caught some perch, some bass,
a couple of crabs, an eel, two blue fish and a bad cold. We landed at the
iron pier and sold our catch to a man who keeps a restaurant and serves
shore dinners.

Then we went forth again. The wind was starting to blow a gale and the
smoke from Jake Holden's pipe enveloped me like a fog. The sky grew dark.
Jake wanted to lift anchor and go ashore, but I said, "No, let's stay out,
because the fish are biting."

What happened next was my fault, not his. We stayed out there fishing in a
blinding gale, the sea coming in in great rollers. Pretty soon the Luna
Park tower was 'way around the corner. Either they had moved it or else
our anchor was dragging.

"Jake," I said, "we're tearing the bottom of the ocean all to pieces; it's
a shame. We'll be off Rockaway in about ten minutes, if this keeps up."

"The boat'll be all tore to pieces, you mean," he said, "and _we'll_ be in
the bottom of the ocean if this keeps up. We're shipping water by the
bucketful. Let's get out of this."

So we hauled in the anchor and tried to get our power started, but it was
too late. Our plug was short circuiting, the coil was gone plumb crazy,
and most of the Atlantic Ocean seemed to be in the carburetor. The rest of
it was on the floor. Besides all this, the pump was on a strike-shorter
hours, I suppose.

Kids, we we