Beach, Gull Point, Hood's Hill, named in honor
of a former school leader and Little Chief, The Grapes, a bunch of eight
small rocks just off the westerly corner, Treasure Island and Far
Island, two low, bush-covered islets of rock and sand lying up-stream
from the farther end of the island and divided from it by a few feet of
water through which it was possible to wade when the river is not very
high, Round Harbor, Turtle Point, Turtle Cove, Round Head, Inner Beach,
Mount Emery, a very tiny mountain indeed, and School Point. That
completed the circuit of the island. But it took them well over an hour
because they took it very slowly and neglected nothing. They took off
shoes and stockings and waded to Treasure and Far Islands, they
scrambled up Mount Emery, hunted for turtles in Turtle Cove--without
even seeing one--and tried broad-jumping on the Inner Beach. It was ten
o'clock when they got back to camp and found most of the fellows
preparing for a bath. They followed suit and presently were splashing
and diving in the water off Inner Beach. It was pretty cold at first,
but they soon got used to it. Afterwards they laid in the sun on the
white sand until Thurlow thumped on a dish pan with a big spoon and
summoned them to dinner. Bathing suits were kept on until it was time to
return to the main land for afternoon practice. The island was
practically deserted then, for but few of the campers were neither
baseball nor crew men.

"Who's going to stay here?" asked Chub before he pushed off the boat.
Four boys answered.

"Well, you fellows keep a watch for Hammond. They'll be paddling over
here pretty soon, probably to-day or to-morrow, to see where we're
keeping the boats. If they come around don't let them see you, but watch
what they do."

The quartette promised eagerly to keep a sharp lookout and Chub and Roy
dipped their oars and rowed across to the landing.

When they returned at five o'clock the two four-oared crews were just
coming back up-stream to the boat-house, looking as though they had been
through a hard afternoon's work. Behind them came Mr. Buckman in his
scull, his small brown megaphone hanging from his neck. Across the
darkening water they could just make out the three Hammond boats
floating downstream toward their quarters.

"Who'll win this year?" asked Roy, as they took up the rowing again.

"Hammond, I guess," answered Chub. "They usually do. They did last year.
You see they've got almost a hun