ted?"

Quite naturally, Ken granted it, with what he thought ill-worded thanks,
and the Sturgises walked home across the meadow without knowing on what
they trod.

"A real author!" Felicia said. "I _told_ you that wasn't a pome, when I
first heard it."

But Ken chose to be severe and modest, and frowned on the "Toad
Song"--as it was familiarly called--for a topic of conversation. And as
weeks slid by, the whole affair was almost forgotten at Applegate Farm.

Those were weeks during which the Maestro, from the shadowy hero of
Kirk's tales, became a very real part of this new life that was slowly
settling to a familiar and loved existence. The quiet garden and the
still old house became as well known to Ken and Felicia as to their
brother, and, indeed, the Maestro might often have been seen in the
living-room at Applegate Farm, listening to Kirk's proud performance on
the melodeon, and eating one of Phil's cookies.

CHAPTER X

VENTURES AND ADVENTURES

Ken had not much time for these visits. The Sturgis Water Line was so
popular that he could not even find a spare day or two in which to haul
out the _Dutchman_ and give her the "lick of paint" she needed. He had
feared that, with the filling of the cottages at the beginning of the
season, business would fall off, but so many weekly visitors came and
went at the hotels that the _Dutchman_ rarely made a trip entirely
empty, and quite often she was forced to leave, till the next time, a
little heap of luggage which even her wide cockpit could not carry.
Sometimes Ken made an extra trip, which brought him back to the pier at
Asquam as the first twilight was gathering.

He had just come in from such an "extra," one day during the busy Fourth
of July weekend, and climbed out upon the wharf when the shadows of the
pile-heads stretched darkly up the streetway. Hop fastened the
tail-board of his wagon behind the last trunk, rubbed his hands, and
said:

"Wife sent ye down some pie. Thought ye desarved it a'ter runnin' up 'n'
down all day."

He produced the pie, wrapped up in a paper, from under the seat, and
presented it to Ken with a flourish and a shuffle that were altogether
characteristic. Supper was waiting at Applegate Farm, Ken knew, but the
pie--which was a cherry one, drippy and delectable--was not to be
resisted, after long hours on the water. He bit into it heartily as he
left Asquam and swung into Pickery Lane.

He hurried along, still wrapped in th