to the condition of a weepful Niobe, utterly helpless to contend against
the sad trend of events. I know how much you disapprove of lingering,
being such an active little body, and so I will tell you the worst at
once. Poor dear Daddy has just broken his leg, and, of all places, in the
most forsaken hole and corner of this dreary island of Newfoundland.

Daddy has always boasted of his perseverance in the pursuit of the
unusual in sport. This time he found it with a vengeance. Our mate, who
hails from these parts, once told him of this place, and implied that the
salmon in the little river running down into this cove would take a fly
whether awake or asleep, and jostled one another for the privilege. While
Daddy is rather fond of a gun, you and I know that there are only two
weapons he is really absorbed in. I suppose that the first is the
instrument he uses to cut off coupons with, and the next is his salmon
rod, which I would like to break into little pieces, for it has been the
cause of turning our long bowsprit towards this horrid jumble of rock and
sea. I considered that we were lucky to have found our way into
Sweetapple Cove without any particular disaster, but of course such luck
could not last long.

We ought never to have come any way, for our skipper, the descendant of
Vikings, had implied that our schooner was in need of all sorts of
repairs, and that sensible people did not start off on long cruises just
after months in Florida which had converted the ship's bottom into a sort
of vegetable garden. Daddy consoled him by telling him he could leave us
there and go off to St. John's to the dry-dock.

You know how pleasantly Daddy speaks to people, and how they detect under
his words a firmness which effectively prevents long discussion.
Stefansson is really a racing skipper, but he likes his berth on the