lection of the sun's rays.

"Sunfish," he whispered to Bill.

A bungling pair of grown-ups crashed down the path and drove the wary
feeders to cover in deeper water. The boys waited a few futile minutes
for their return, then dashed noisily over the wooden south bridge, past
the golf links with its dense mass of patiently waiting enthusiasts, and
down the gently sloping road to the stone bridge which marked the
entrance to the yacht harbor.

There, where the black, bobbing buoys marked the moorings of the summer
fleet of skiffs and schooners, of noisy little open motorboats, and
long, heavily powered gasoline cruisers, Silvey found an empty bottle on
the graveled shore. John looked at it reflectively.

"Got some paper?"

Bill found an old spelling sheet in his pocket. John tore off the
cleanest end and, with the curving side of the bottle for a writing
board, scribbled a laborious note.

"Lat 57, Long 64," he began, remembering the inevitable heading of the
missives in sea-faring novels. "Nancy Lee sank this date, August 3,
1872. All hands lost but me. Frank Smith."

"What's that for?"

He worked the note down the narrow glass neck and plugged it with a bit
of driftwood. "Maybe somebody, 'way across the lake, will find this," he
explained, as he threw the receptacle far out on the water. "Then
they'll think a ship's sunk."

"What's 'lat' and 'long'?" asked Silvey, as they watched it bobbing up
and down with the ripples.

"The checkerboard lines on the geography maps," his chum answered
evasively, as they retraced their steps northward.

At the macadam road they hesitated. On the other side lay the smaller
golf course, which offered excellent amusement because of its many
enthusiastic novices at the sport, and the lure of an occasional
shrubbery-hidden ball which might be found by keen eyes. Ahead,
stretched the lake and the broad walk, thronged with laughing, friendly
humanity.

"Let's go the beach way," said John suddenly. Indeed, no spring jaunt
could be complete without a stroll over the clinging, weather-beaten
sand.

They halted first at the long pier, and walked out to the end to catch
the invigorating freshness of the water-kissed south wind. There, a
persistent fisherman, the first of that season's nimrod tribe, leaned
against the life-preserver post.

John leaned cautiously over to see if captive perch were floating back
and forth. Only ruffled water met his gaze.

"Biting any?" he asked.