so glad! Think o' _that_ now. Think o' the bad fix you gets
out of, and thank the Lard you gets left at Pinch-In Tickle where you
was as welcome as a son, instead of at some harbour where no one was
bidin', as might o' happened. Just be thinkin' of to-day, and thank the
Lard you're well and hearty, and has a snug berth with plenty o' grub.
Nothin' to worry about! Not a thing!"

"May I have a pull at the oars?" Charley asked, the gloom suddenly
dispersed by Skipper Zeb's cheery voice and logical argument.

"Aye, lad, 'twill warm you up," agreed Skipper Zeb heartily. "Take
Toby's oars. Let Charley have a pull at your oars, Toby, lad."

Charley soon wearied of the unaccustomed work, and blisters began to
form in the palms of soft hands; and when Toby suggested it, he was glad
enough to surrender the oars again to Toby, who minded it not a bit.

Daylight came and with it bright sunshine. Charley's heart beat with
gladness and the joy of life. His far away city home seemed farther away
than ever. He remembered it as one remembers a place of dreams--the
subways, the elevated railways, the traffic-clogged streets, the high
buildings, the noise. Here were no chimneys vomiting smoke and soot.
Here were no dirty streets to poison the air with noxious fumes and
germs of disease. He breathed deeply of the pure air bearing the sweet
perfume of the forest and the refreshing smell of the salt sea. It
filled his lungs like a life-giving tonic. How glorious this wild world
was!

"Well, now!" Skipper Zeb announced an hour before midday. "Here's Swile
Island before we knows it! We'll stop for a bit to boil the kettle and
stretch our legs ashore."

Swile Island was a small, nearly round island, containing an area equal
to about that of a city block. Its center rose to a small hill, covered
by a stunted growth of black spruce trees, which somehow clung to its
rocky surface.

Charley was glad to go ashore, and he soon learned that "to boil the
kettle" meant to prepare and eat luncheon. While Toby carried up from
the boat the food and cooking utensils, Skipper Zeb lighted a fire, and
in a little while the kettle was boiling for tea and a pan of salt pork
sizzling over the coals.

Never in his life had Charley eaten fried salt pork, and Skipper Zeb's
pork contained no streak of lean. He would have left the table without
eating had such a meal been served him in his city home. But here he ate
the pork, with his bread sopped into the g