ich he knew by heart.

The lad's excitement increased tenfold when, that afternoon, they
approached the little cottage of the old keeper. It was right on the
seashore in an outlying suburb looking out over the peaceful stretch of
Lake St. Clair.

"Mr. Icchia," said the old inspector, after greetings had been
exchanged, "my boy here is going to join one of the lake stations and,
to give him an idea of what the service can do, I want you to tell him
the story of that night off Chocolay Island."

"It's a deal like beatin' a big drum," began the old keeper in a
quavering voice, "to bid an ol' fellow like me tell of his own doin's!"

"But you're not doing it to show off," Mr. Swift said, "I wouldn't ask
you to do that. It's because I know you think a good deal of the Service
that I wanted my boy to meet you, and to hear a real story of
life-saving told by one of the men who was in it."

"It wasn't so much at that--" the old man began. But the lighthouse
inspector interrupted.

"Spin the yarn, Icchia," he said, "it's a poor trick to make a lot of
excuses! Besides, it spoils the story."

Now the old keeper had a firm belief in his own value as a story-teller
and it piqued his pride to have it thought that he was spoiling a good
yarn, so without further preamble he began.

"I don' know what the world is comin' to," he said, after he had filled
his pipe and lit it, "but there's no sech winters to-day as there was in
my young days. I kin remember, when I wasn't no older'n that bub there,
there was more snow in one winter 'n we have in five, now; an' Lake
Huron was always friz up. Life-savin' was a lot harder in them days,
ye'd better believe me, an' not only in the winter but all year round."

"Why?" asked the boy.

"There wasn't no sech lights then as there is now, for one thing, an' a
skipper had to keep his eyes peeled an' his lead goin'. An', for 'nother
thing, in the days I'm talkin' of, they was mostly all sailin' craft.
Now I'm not sayin' nothin' in favor of steamers--I was raised on an
ol'-time clipper. I will say that when a gale ain't too bad, a steamer
kin handle herself more easy-like 'n a sailin' craft, when there ain't
but a little seaway. But when she's blowin' good an' strong, an' the
gale's got more heft 'n a steamer's screws, what use is her machines to
her?"

"Not much," said the boy.

"Ye're sayin' it," the old keeper continued. "An' in the ol' days, when
steamers first run on the Lakes, they we