"Four, five, six. Fust rate, fust rate,--I like to get away on
time."

All the clouds had disappeared, and it was a fine, clear morning.
We were sailing almost into the sun. Perhaps you think that I have
forgotten to tell you where we were going, but one of the best
things about the beginning of that voyage was that we didn't know
exactly where we WERE going. All we had to do was to keep on down
the river, turn into Sandy Island River, and pretty soon we would
come out in Broad Bay. And in Broad Bay there were any number of
islands,--some people said three hundred and sixty-five, one for
every day of the year. Some of these islands had people living on
them, but a great many of them were uninhabited. We could sail
about for a week, call at half a dozen different islands every
day, and still have a lot of them left over.

"Can we get to Duck Island tonight?" asked Ed Mason.

"Not 'fore tomorrer noon. We'll put in at Little Duck, tonight."

We were slipping along now beside a big, three-masted schooner--a
coal schooner--which was anchored in mid-stream. The crew must
have been below at breakfast, for the decks were deserted except
for one man. He wore a blue shirt, and he leaned over the rail,
smoking a day pipe. As we passed he spelled out the name on the
stern of our boat. He did this in such a loud voice that it was
clear he wished us to hear him.

"Haitch--o--double p--e--r--HOPPER--g-r-a--double s-GRASS. HOPPER-
-GRASS!"