ys, at the latest. Hambleton disliked the club and left
it, although his first intention had been to put up there. He picked out
a modest, up-town hotel, new to him, for no other reason than that it had
a pretty name, The Larue. Then he began to consider details.

The day after his arrival was occupied in making arrangements for his
boat. He put into this matter the same painstaking buoyancy that he had
put into a dull business for twelve years. He changed his plans half a
dozen times, and exceeded them wholly in the size and equipment of the
little vessel, and in the consequent expense; but he justified himself,
as men will, by a dozen good reasons. The trig little sail-boat turned
out to be a respectable yacht, steam, at that. She was called the _Sea
Gull_. Neat in the beam, stanch in the bows, rigged for coasting and
provided with a decent living outfit, she was "good enough for any
gentleman," in the opinion of the agent who rented her. Jim was half
ashamed at giving up the more robust scheme of sailing his own boat, with
Aleck; but some vague and expansive spirit moved him "to see," as he
said, "what it would be like to go as far and as fast as we please."
While they were about it, they would call on some cousins at Bar Harbor
and get good fun out of it.

The idea of his holiday grew as he played with it. As his spin took on a
more complicated character, his zest rose. He went forth on Sunday
feeling as if some vital change was impending. His little cruise loomed
up large, important, epochal. He laughed at himself and thought, with
his customary optimism, that a vacation was worth waiting twelve years
for, if waiting endowed it with such a flavor. Jim knew that Aleck would
relish the spin, too. Aleck's nature was that of a grind tempered with
sportiness. Jim sat down Sunday morning and wrote out the whole program
for Aleck's endorsement, sent the letter by special delivery and went out
to reconnoiter.

The era of Sunday orchestral concerts had begun, but that day, to Jim's
regret, the singer was not a contralto. "Dramatic Soprano" was on the
program; a new name, quite unknown to Jim. His interest in the soloist
waned, but the orchestra was enough. He thanked Heaven that he was past
the primitive stage of thinking any single voice more interesting than
the assemblage of instruments known as orchestra.

Hambleton found a place in the dim vastness of the hall, and sank into
his seat in a mood of