nd
the stranger was invited to share it. He accepted, and ate heartily,
almost ravenously.

"Seems good to taste somebody's cooking besides your own," he
apologized. "When you've summered and wintered yourself, year in and
year out, the thing gets pretty monotonous and you almost hate the sight
of food."

"Then you're alone most of the time?" ventured Lane.

"Not most of the time, but all the time."

The boys would have liked to inquire further, but courtesy forbade, and
their guest did not volunteer anything more regarding himself. He
shifted the conversation to Nemo.

"Bright-looking dog you've got there!" he commented.

"Yes," said Jim. "And he's fully as bright as he looks. I see you've a
dog and some cats aboard."

"Yes; and they're good company--better, in some ways, than human beings,
for they can't talk back. The dog's Oliver Cromwell; and the cats I've
named Joan of Arc, Marie Antoinette, and Queen Victoria. I must go
aboard and give 'em their suppers."

He rose from the table.

"Come back again in an hour," invited Jim, "and we'll have some music.
We've a violin here."

"I'll be more than glad to come," returned their guest. "Music's
something I don't have a chance to hear very often."

Walking down the beach, he sculled out to his sloop. His animals greeted
him, Oliver Cromwell vociferously, the cats with a more reserved
welcome.

"What d'you make of him?" asked Percy. "Odd stick, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Jim, meditatively, "but he seems like a gentleman. What I
can't understand is why he's cruising along the coast alone in that old
Noah's ark. It doesn't seem natural. Besides, it's dangerous business
for a man of his age. Well, it's no concern of ours. Let's give him a
pleasant evening."

Promptly at the end of the allotted hour the stranger came ashore again.

"Got the children all in bed for the night," said he. "Now I can make
you a little visit with a clear conscience."

He spoke faster and more cheerfully than he had done before. The
melancholy in his bearing had vanished. Jim thought he detected a slight
odor of liquor about him, but he could not be sure. They all sat down
together, and Throppy brought out his violin.

"What shall it be, boys?" he asked, after a preliminary tuning up.

"Give us 'The Wearing of the Green,'" suggested Lane.

Soon the wailing strains of the familiar Irish melody were breathing
through the cabin. "Kathleen Mavourneen" followed, and the stranger sat