Hart boys were laying their plans for the future, they were themselves
the subjects of more than one discussion, for Ford Foster gave his two
friends the benefit of all he knew of his cousins.

"It's a good thing for you that the steamer didn't go ashore anywhere
near their house," he said to Frank Harley. "They're a pair of born
young wreckers. Just think of the tricks they played on my sister
Annie."

After that conversation, it was remarkable what daily care and attention
Dab Kinzer and Frank paid to their sparring lessons. It even exceeded
the pluck and perseverance with which Dab went to work at his French.

Plenty of fishing, bathing, riding, boxing. Three boys together can find
so much more to do than one can alone, and they made it four as often as
they could, for Dick Lee had proved himself the best kind of company.
Frank Harley's East Indian experience had made him very indifferent to
the mere question of color, and Ford Foster had too much manhood to
forget that long night of gale and fog and danger on board the
"Swallow."

It was only a day or so after the perilous "cruise" that Dab Kinzer met
his old playmate, Jenny Walters, just in the edge of the village.

"How well you look, Dabney!" remarked the sharp-tongued little lady.
"Drowning must agree with you."

"Yes," said Dab; "I like it."

"Do you know what a fuss they made over you when you were gone? I s'pose
they'd nothing else to do."

"Jenny!" suddenly exclaimed Dab, holding out his hand, "you mustn't
quarrel with me any more. Bill Lee told me about your coming down to the
landing. You may say anything you want to."

Jenny colored and bit her lip, and she would have given her bonnet to
know if Bill Lee had told Dab how very red her eyes were as she looked
down the inlet for some sign of the "Swallow." Something had to be said,
however, and she said it almost spitefully.

"I don't care, Dabney Kinzer. It did seem dreadful to think of you three
boys being drowned, and you, too, with your new clothes on.
Good-morning, Dab!"

"She's a right good girl, if she'd only show it," muttered Dab, as Jenny
tripped away; "but she isn't a bit like Annie Foster. How I do wish Ham
would come back!"

Time enough for that; and as the days went by, the Morris homestead
began to look less and less like its old self, and more and more like a
house made for people to live and be happy in. Mrs. Kinzer and her
daughters had now settled down into their new quarter