upon the lake. The dream of half a dozen boats, under command of
Commodore Frank Sedley, maneuvering on the water, performing beautiful
evolutions, and doing a hundred things which they could not then define,
was so pleasant, so fascinating, that they could not easily give it up.

There would be the commodore in his "flag boat," signalizing the fleet,
now bidding them pull in "close order," now ordering a boat out on
service, and now sending one to examine a bay or a harbor. And then, if
they could only get leave to explore Rippleton River, how the commander
of the squadron would send out a small craft to sound ahead of them, and
to buoy off the rocks and shoals, and how the people on the banks of the
stream would stare when they saw them moving in sections against the
sluggish current! Ah, a fleet of boats was such a brilliant ideal, that
I will venture to say more than one of the boys lay awake nights to
think about it.

I will not attempt to tell my young friends all the queer fancies
concerning the squadron in which they indulged. They were essentially
air castles, very beautiful structures, it is true, but as yet they
rested only on the clouds. But the means of realizing this magnificent
ideal was within their grasp. They had the money to buy the boats, and
the only question was, whether George Weston, the "director" of the
club, would permit the purchase.

"What have you done about the fleet, Tony?" asked Joseph Hooper.

"I have spoken to my brother about it," replied Tony, with a smile.

"What did he say?"