"Happen to know Ira?" says I.

"Ought to," says he. "First cousins. You from Boston?"

"Why, Cap!" says I. "What have I ever done to you? Now, honest, do I look like I--but I'll forgive you this time. New York, Cap: not Brooklyn, or Staten Island or the Bronx, you know, but straight New York, West 17th-st. And I've come all this way just to see Mr.

Higgins."

"Gosh!" says he. "Ira always did have all the luck."

Next crack he calls me Sorrel Top, and inside of five minutes we was joshin' away chummy, me up on a tall stool alongside, and him pointin'

out all the sights. And, believe me, the State of Maine's got some scenery scattered along the wet edge of it! Honest, it's nothin' but scenery,--rocks and trees and water, and water and trees and rocks, and then a few more rocks.

"How about when you hit one of them sharp ones?" says I.

"Government files a new edge on it," says he. "They keep a gang that does nothin' else."

"Think of that!" says I. "I don't see any lobsters floatin' around, though."

"Too late in the day," says he. "'Fraid of gittin' sunburned. You want to watch for 'em about daybreak. Millions then. Travel in flocks."

"Ye-e-es?" says I. "All hangin' onto a string, I expect. But why the painted posts stickin' up out of the water?"

"Hitchin' posts," says he, "for sea hosses."

Oh, I got a bunch of valuable marine information from him, and when the second mate came up he added a lot more. If I hadn't thought to tell 'em how there was always snow on the Singer and Woolworth towers, and how the East Side gunmen was on strike to raise the homicide price to three dollars and seventy-five cents, they'd had me well Sweeneyed. As it was, I guess we split about even.

Him findin' Boothbay Harbor among all that snarl of islands and channels wasn't any bluff, though. That was the real sleight of hand.

As we're comin' up to the dock he points out Ira's boatworks, just on the edge of the town. Half an hour later I've left my baggage at the hotel and am interviewin' Mr. Higgins.

He's the same old Ira; only he's wearin' blue overalls and a boiled shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"Roarin' Rocks, eh?" says he. "Why, that's the Hollister place on Cunner Point, about three miles up."

"Can I get a trolley?" says I.

"Trolley!" says he. "Why, Son, there ain't any 'lectric cars nearer'n Bath."

"Gee, what a jay burg!" says I. "How about a ferry, then?"

Ira shakes his head. Seems Roarin' Rocks is a private joint, the summer place of this Mr. Hollister who's described by Ira as "richer'n Croesus"--whatever that might mean. Anyway, they're exclusive parties that don't encourage callers; for the only way of gettin' there is over a private road around the head of the bay, or by hirin' a launch to take you up.

"Generally," says Ira, "they send one of their boats down to meet company. Now, if they was expectin' you----"

"That's just it," I breaks in, "they ain't. Fact is, Ira, there's a young lady visitin' there with her aunt, and--and--well, Aunty and me ain't so chummy as we might be."

"Just so," says Ira, noddin' wise.

"Now my plan was to go up there and kind of stick around, you know,"

says I, "sort of in the shade, until the young lady strolled out."

Ira shakes his head discouragin'. "They're mighty uppish folks," says he. "Got 'No Trespa.s.s' signs all over the place--dogs too."

"h.e.l.lup!" says I. "What am I up against? Why don't Aunty travel with a bunch of gumshoe guards and be done with it?"

"Tell you what," says Ira, struck by a stray thought, "if lookin' the place over'll do any good, you might go out with Eb Westcott this afternoon when he baits. He's got pots all around the point."

That don't mean such a lot to me; but my middle name is Brodie. "Show me Eb," says I.

He wa'n't any thrillin' sight, Eb; mostly rubber hip boots, flannel shirt, and whiskers. He could have been cleaner. So could his old tub of a lobster boat; but not while he stuck to that partic'lar line of business, I guess. And, say, I know now what baitin' is. It's haulin'

up lobster pots from the bottom of the ocean and decoratin' 'em inside with fish--ripe fish, at that. The scheme is to lure the lobsters into the pot. Seems to work too; but I guess a lobster ain't got any sense of smell.

"Better put on some old clothes fust," advised Eb, and as I always like to dress the part I borrows a moldy suit of oilskins from Ira, includin' one of these yellow sea bonnets, and climbs aboard.

It's a one-lunger putt-putt--and take it from me the combination of gasolene and last Tuesday's fish ain't anything like _Eau d'Espagne_!

Quite different! Also I don't care for that jumpy up and down motion one of these little boats gets on, specially after pie and beans for breakfast. Then Eb hands me the steerin' ropes while he whittles some pressed oak.u.m off the end of a brunette plug and loads his pipe. More perfume comin' my way!

"Ever try smokin' formaldehyde?" says I.

"Gosh, no!" says Eb. "What's it like?"

"You couldn't tell the difference," says I.

"We git tin tags off'm Sailor's Pride," says Eb. "Save up fifty, and you git a premium."

"You ought to," says I, "and a pension for life."

"Huh!" says Eb. "It's good eatin' too, Ever chaw any?" and he holds out the plug invitin'.

"Don't tempt me," says I. "I promised my dear old grandmother I wouldn't."

"Lookin' a little peaked, ain't you!" says he. "Most city chaps do when they fust come; but after 'bout a month of this----"

"Chop it, Eb!" says I. "I'm feelin' unhappy enough as it is. A month of this? Ah, say!"

After awhile we begun stoppin' to bait. Eb would shut off the engine, run up to a float, haul in a lot of clothesline, and fin'lly pull up an affair that's a cross between a small crockery crate and an openwork hen-coop. Next he'd grab a big needle and string a dozen or so of the gooey fish on a cord. I watched once. After that I turned my back.

By way of bein' obligin', Eb showed me how to roll the flywheel and start the engine. He said I was a heap stronger in the arms than I looked, and he didn't mind lettin' me do it right along. Friendly old yap, Eb was. I kept on rollin' the wheel.

So about three P. M., as we was workin' our way along the sh.o.r.e, Eb looks up and remarks, "Here's the Hollister place, Roarin' Rocks."

Sure enough there it was, almost like the postcard picture, only not colored quite so vivid.

"Folks are out airin' themselves too," he goes on.

They were. I could see three or four people movin' about on the veranda; for we wa'n't more'n half a block away. First off I spots Aunty. She's paradin' up and down, stiff and stately, and along with her waddles a wide, dumpy female in pink. And next, all in white, and lookin' as slim and graceful as an Easter lily, I makes out Vee; also a young gent in white flannels and a striped tennis blazer. He's smokin'

a cigarette and swingin' a racket jaunty. I could even hear Vee's laugh ripple out across the water. You remember how she put it too, "nice, but awfully stupid." Seems she was makin' the best of it, though.

And here I was, in Ira's baggy oilskins, my feet in six inches of oily brine, squattin' on the edge of a smelly fish box tryin' to hold down a piece of custard pie! No, that wa'n't exactly the rosy picture I threw on the screen back in the Corrugated gen'ral offices only yesterday.

Nothing like that! I don't do any hoo-hooin', or wave any private signals. I pulls the sticky sou'wester further down over my eyes and squats lower in the boat.