and wipin' his hands on his corduroys.

"Who's the party in the tennis outfit?" says I.

"Him?" says Eb, gawpin' ashore. "Must be young Hollister, that owns
the mahogany speed boat. Stuck up young dude, I guess. Wall, five
more traps to haul, and we're through, Son."

"Let's go haul 'em, then," says I, grabbin' the flywheel.

Great excursion, that was! Once more on land, I sneaked soggy footed
up to the hotel and piked for my room. I shied supper and went to the
feathers early, trustin' that if I could get stretched out level with
my eyes shut things would stop wavin' and bobbin' around. That was
good dope too.

I rolled out next mornin' feelin' fine and silky; but not so cocky by
half. Somehow, I wa'n't gettin' any of the lucky breaks I'd looked for.

My total programme for the day was just to bat around Boothbay. And,
say, of all the lonesome places for city clothes and a straw lid!
Honest, I never saw so many yachty rigs in my life,--young chaps in
white ducks and sneakers and canvas shoes, girls in middie blouses, old
guys in white flannels and yachtin' caps, even old ladies dressed
sporty and comf'table--and more square feet of sunburn than would cover
Union Square. I felt like a blond Eskimo at a colored camp meetin'.

As everyone was either comin' from or goin' to the docks, I wanders
down there too, and loafs around watchin' the steamers arrive, and the
big sailin' yachts anchored off in the harbor, and the little boats