e knew must be those
chosen to assist him in his forthcoming labors. One of them was a
bright-looking French Canadian, while the others were evidently
foreigners of the same class as the car-pushers in the mine. The
captain of the tug was a Yankee named Spillins.

The latter glanced over the note from Major Arkell that the new-comer
handed him, and said, "All right, Mr. Peril; if you're ready for a
start, I am."

"Yes," replied Peveril, "I'm ready," and in another minute they were
off. As they got under way the young leader of the expedition walked
aft to make the acquaintance of his men. He was annoyed to find that,
while two of them were brawny fellows who looked well fit for work,
they could not muster a dozen words of English between them. Noting
his efforts to converse with them, the third man, who introduced
himself as Joe Pintaud, came to his assistance.

"No goot you talk to dem Dago feller, Mist Pearl," he said; "zey can
spik ze Anglais no more as woodchuck. You tell 'em, 'dam lazy
scoundrel,' zey onstan pret goot; but, by gar, you talk lak white man
you got kick it in hees head."

Realizing the truth of Joe Pintaud's words, Peveril left the others to
a stolid smoking of their long-stemmed pipes, and sought whatever
information their more intelligent companion had to give concerning
their present undertaking. He quickly discovered that, while Joe was
as ignorant as himself of that coast, he was an expert raftsman and
logger. He also found that the tug carried a good supply of rope,
axes, pike-poles, and other things necessary for the work in hand.

After having satisfied himself on these points, Peveril gazed for a
while at the bleak, rock-bound coast along which they were running,
and then, suddenly bethinking himself of a pleasure that he had
reserved for a leisure moment, he entered the pilot-house, and,
sitting down on a cushioned locker behind Captain Spillins, who stood
at the wheel, began to feel in his pockets.

As he did this his movements grew more and more impatient, until
finally, with a muttered exclamation, he turned the entire contents of
his pockets out on the cushion.

"Lost something?" asked the captain, looking around.

"Yes."

"Not your money, I hope."

"No, but a letter that was worth more to me than all the money in the
world."

"Whew!" whistled the captain. "Must have been important."

CHAPTER XII

A VISION OF THE CLIFFS

Rose Bonnifay had acted more from impul