Resisting a strong temptation to kick the blubbering negro, Mr. Murren succeeded in getting the fellow’s attention by shouting in his ear, and yanked him up on his feet. The boat was quite unusable, the bow having been crumpled into matchwood by the force with which the sea-bat had dragged it upon the reef, so the question of reaching the shore was not an easy one. However, Pete knew the keys thoroughly and, in response to much questioning, admitted that it was possible with only a short swim here and there, to reach a lighthouse about four miles away.

The negro would have preferred to stay on the reef until morning, for he could sleep as easily on the sand as in a bed, but Mr. Murren knew that the two boys were not inured to hardship, Paul especially, and he compelled the boatman to show the way. It was a toilsome but not particularly dangerous journey, and when they reached the lighthouse, and had done full justice to a quickly-prepared meal, they were quite willing, as Paul declared, to tackle another sea-bat. There was a small motor-boat owned by the lighthouse-keeper, and the party borrowed this, reaching the Golden Falcon without further misadventure, the capitalist recompensing the cowardly negro for the loss of his boat.

Owing to the thorough work that had been done at Bermuda, and having the assistance of his capitalist friend, Mr. Collier speedily secured the specimens and the drawings he needed of the Florida reefs. He kept Colin hustling, but found time to enter into the question of the proposed sponge-farm with a great deal of interest, and went with a party to Anclote Key, where the Bureau of Fisheries had established a station for the investigation of the sponge industry, with especial regard to the transplanting of sponges. The government expert welcomed them heartily, and an arrangement was entered into whereby the Bureau accepted Mr. Murren’s offer to use for its experiments a part of such sponge-ground as he should acquire, while he, at the same time, had the benefit of the advice of the investigators.

“It seems to me,” the capitalist said, when the details had been concluded, “that’s about the best kind of investment I know, getting expert opinion for yourself in such a way that it benefits the whole nation.”

“It is, I think,” the Fisheries official replied; “but you can’t always get people to realize that. Why, even the State governments in many cases are not always ready to co-operate, and only last year the Assembly of a certain State refused to permit the establishment of a hatchery, because a relative of one of the assemblymen owned a summer hotel in the district, and he thought it might reduce the number of fish in a lake near the hotel.”

“How absurd!”

“Of course, it’s absurd, but it’s amazing how often that sort of thing happens. Still, even State governments are becoming more intelligent now, and some, like Rhode Island, for instance, have been in the very forefront of Fishery administration.”

“Yet it means money in the pockets of the people to conserve fish!”

“But also it means a certain small outgo from the Assembly,” was the reply; “there’s the rub. But,” he added, turning to Colin, for the boy had told him of his plans, “by the time you’re through college and on the permanent rolls of the Bureau that sort of ignorance about the value of Fisheries control will probably all have passed away.”

“I hope so,” the boy answered, “and I’m glad that I haven’t seen anything except hearty support. Going to Brown University, of course, is a whole lot in my favor, because I understand they’ve always been strong on the Fisheries side.”

“You’re going to leave us to-night, then, Colin?” asked his host.

“Yes, Mr. Murren,” the boy replied; “by taking the evening train, I can get to Providence in time for the opening of college, and Mr. Collier is kind enough to let me start right away. I can’t be grateful enough to you, sir, for all your kindness on this trip.”

“That’s all right,” his friend said heartily, “I’ve enjoyed having you, and so has Paul, I know. I shall hear from you occasionally, I hope, and maybe the Golden Falcon will have you on board for some other trip.”

“Thank you ever so much, sir,” Colin answered; “but I guess I’m booked for college steadily until next summer, and the Bureau of Fisheries during vacation.”

But Colin was mistaken in his idea that almost a year would elapse before he was busy again with Fisheries work, for shortly before the end of his first term, he received a letter from his father in which the suggestion was made that the boy should spend a week on the Great Lakes during the Christmas vacation, to get an idea of what winter work was like. Colin smiled as he read the letter, for he knew well that he was ‘in for it,’ since his father would make him go through every step of the training.

Accordingly, one cold day, he found himself aboard the steamer Mary N. Lewis, which had been chartered by the Bureau for a couple of weeks’ trawling in Lake Michigan. A bitter wind was blowing and lumps of ice floated near the shores. The whitefish were not plentiful that winter, and when the nets came up and Colin had to pick fish out, b-r-r-r, but it was cold! A great many of the fish were not ripe for spawning and had to be thrown back again, which delayed matters greatly and kept the party on the water for several days.

Frequently Colin’s lips were blue and his fingers numb, while his ears and cheekbones and chin felt as though they were being sliced off gradually by the blasts blowing down from icy Canada, but he knew that, to a certain extent, he was on trial, and he laughed and joked and managed to keep his spirits up, though his teeth chattered. There was no great amount of excitement in catching the whitefish and securing the spawn for development in the hatchery, but it was a test of endurance, and incidentally the boy learned much about the fishes of the Great Lakes.

“There’s one thing I don’t quite see, though,” he said one day to the government fish culturist, with whom he was working; “and that is, why we need to do this.”

“How do you mean, Dare?”

“Well, in the West, they hatch young salmon because the old salmon are caught going up the river before they spawn, and they die, anyway; but here they have all the room they want for spawning, and I should think Nature would look after it.”

“You don’t want to forget,” the fish culturist replied, “that Nature is very exact. Everything has to balance. The whitefish born are ten times as many as those that mature, but the number that matures is just precisely enough to keep the supply going.”

“I see that, all right,” the boy answered.

“Well, then, if you disturb this balance by extensive fishing, isn’t it easy to see that you’ve got to make up for it somewhere? We don’t have to worry over keeping up the supply of catfish, for example, because Nature is being left alone, and she has worked the problem out. But if suddenly a big catfish market developed as it easily might, because, in spite of popular opinion, catfish is good eating and if thousands of them were caught, it would be necessary to find some way to help Nature in keeping up the supply.

“Now, the whitefish,” he continued, “isn’t like the salmon, which spawns carefully. The lake fish does that in a sort of hit-or-miss manner, with the result that only a small percentage of the eggs get a fair start. It is not difficult for us to put hundreds of millions of young fish into the lakes every year, and the proportion of these that survive will not merely keep the supply constant, but will even increase it.”

“Then that will disturb the balance in another way?”

“Yes,” was the reply, “but it will be at the expense of other species which are of no use to man. Nature is like the proverbial Irishman, she can’t be drove, but she’s mighty easy to lead. When you return to the university, get hold of some books on the means by which all the various kinds of living creatures in the world are kept on an even balance, how they all get their food, and how every tiny speck fits into the whole world scheme. You’ll find that sort of reading has more grip to it than any novel except, perhaps, those of a few of the really great writers, of whom there are some in every age.”

“I found that out,” answered Colin, “when I was working with Mr. Collier. He was always saying that things were ‘so much worth while,’ and when he started to explain them, they certainly were! It’s just like this, I’ve only seen a little bit of this inland water work, but you handle other species beside whitefish in this work on the Great Lakes, don’t you?”

“Yes,” was the culturist’s reply; “lake trout and pike perch among others. One station alone has handled seventy-one million trout eggs in a season. But the pike perch is a more difficult fish to propagate artificially, though nearly half a million eggs were distributed last year. We gave Canada six million pike perch fry. There’s no wasted energy in the Bureau of Fisheries, it’s practical all the way through, and you’re learning to see it from the right angle doing the work and seeing the results.”

It was this personal contact with the fish-culture work, this direct demonstration of the money value to the country of scientific knowledge, which became Colin’s stimulus. His college-mates outdistanced him in many studies, for the boy was not at heart of a scholarly type, but in his scientific work he was far in advance of them all. Seeing his interest and his perseverance, several of the professors and instructors in the scientific department took a liking to Colin, and the lad was sure to be found on every kind of field expedition for which he was eligible. He was quite an athlete, too, but he settled down to swimming as his share in the athletic work of the university. Already quite at home in the water, he worked at improving his stroke with such energy, and was in the tank so much, that before the end of his freshman year, he was by long odds the best swimmer in the college. With his devotion to fish and his prowess in the water, it was a common saying that “Dare’s growing fins!” and the college paper took to calling him “Fins,” a nickname which stuck to him ever after.

As he had intimated to his father long before, Colin was especially anxious to go to Woods Hole, the great marine station of the Bureau of Fisheries, situated on the southwestern corner of Cape Cod, and the most famous marine biological laboratory in the New World. The work of the Fisheries appealed to him a great deal more when it bore a relation to the sea, rather than to rivers and inland waters, and his application for a position on the summer force at Woods Hole had been sent to headquarters shortly after the New Year. Accordingly, just as soon as the term was over, he hurried to Washington.

Disappointment awaited him. His heart had been set on that especial feature of the work, but when he asked Dr. Crafts about it, the Deputy Commissioner shook his head.

“I have thought the matter over,” he said, “and if you are equally anxious next year to go to Woods Hole you shall go. But this season I’m going to send you to the Mississippi to do some work on mussels.”

“Very well, sir,” Colin answered, his expression betraying his regrets, but his will determining that he would make no seeming complaint. “I wish I’d known this winter, and I would have given more attention to the mollusks.”

The Deputy Commissioner, who had friends in Brown University, had heard indirectly once or twice about Colin, and smiled to himself. He was pleased by the lad’s self-control, and continued:

“The mussel question is of a great deal more interest than you think. I’m not sure, of course, but there are signs of a pearl-fever, and if there is one, you’ll certainly see something doing. The Mississippi and Ohio were like a Klondike in 1903!”

“What is a ‘pearl-fever,’ Dr. Crafts?” asked the boy.

“A silly infatuation that seems to strike the farmers of the river valleys every few years on hearing that a valuable pearl has been found in a mussel. The get-rich-quick hope is very general, and it seems so much easier to dredge mussels and open them until a fortune is found in one than it does to farm for a living. In 1903, thousands upon thousands of farms were deserted or sold for next to nothing by people who believed that within a week they could be made millionaires by the pearls they would find in Mississippi River mussels.”

“But I thought pearls came from oysters!” exclaimed Colin in surprise.

“So they do, but they come from mussels, as well, and clams occasionally. But you ought to remember,” the Deputy Commissioner continued, “that the finding of an occasional pearl in an oyster or a mussel is of comparatively little importance, because it’s an irregular sort of thing. The mother-of-pearl industry, however, is of big importance, it has an economic value to the country, and consequently it’s our business to see that the natural resources are as wisely used as possible. We’ll start a party out there on June fifteenth, so you can report here by that time.”

“But, sir ”

“Well?”

“That’s three weeks away!”

“Is that too long to wait? I’m afraid you’ll have to learn patience, Colin; that’s as important as any knowledge of fish culture.”

“But I was wondering, Dr. Crafts,” the boy urged, “if I had three weeks to spend, why I couldn’t go down to Beaufort?”

“What for?”

“One of my instructors in biology is there,” Colin said. “I believe the Bureau gave him table-room in the laboratory there for some work on turtles, and he said I could help him if you were willing to have me go. I didn’t say anything about it, because I wanted to go to Woods Hole right away, but if I have this time to spare, don’t you think I ought to use it?”

“I think you ought to use it for a holiday,” the Deputy Commissioner answered.

“But I’d rather be doing something!” protested Colin.

“Perhaps,” was the firm reply; “but not necessarily at Beaufort. Aside from the hatching of diamond-back terrapin, there’s nothing going on there in which you could be of any service. Besides, you’ll get ‘stale’ unless you have a vacation. ‘All work and no play,’ you know.”

Colin was eager to urge the Deputy Commissioner, but he could see it would be useless.

“I’d read up on turtles, too!” he returned in a disappointed tone.

“H’m by your instructor you mean Mr. Lark, do you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look here, Colin,” said the Deputy Commissioner, “since you have practically joined the Bureau by our promise to accept you if you make good, don’t forget that we are after results first. I’ve been a boy myself, and I think I can see what you’re driving at. I suppose Lark has been telling you some of his stories about riding diving turtles.”

“Yes, Dr. Crafts,” the boy replied; “he told me a lot about it.”

“I thought so,” was the reply. “I remember some magazine articles he did. And I suppose you thought you wanted to take a ride?”

“I’m a good swimmer, sir,” Colin answered a little proudly.

“You mean you can swim,” the Deputy Commissioner responded a little sharply, for being modest himself, he disliked any appearance of boasting.

“Yes, sir,” the boy said; “that was what I meant.”

“Well, there’s no turtle-riding at Beaufort. If you knew a little more about these subjects, you wouldn’t make such breaks, whether you have been reading up on them or not. The leather turtle, the big one on which men dive by holding on to the shell, is an aquatic species and never comes into brackish water. The terrapin lives in the mud, and is only to be found in marshy places. If you want to go turtle-riding for your vacation, why, go ahead, no one’s going to stop you, but you can hardly do that while officially or even unofficially acting as an assistant at Beaufort. It’s almost as far from Beaufort to the Florida Keys as it is from here to Hudson’s Bay.”

“I hadn’t realized that, sir,” Colin answered, surprised.

“Very few people do,” was the reply. “Why, the State of Florida alone is as long as the distance from New York to Nova Scotia, or Washington to Detroit. You can’t go after leather-turtle from Beaufort unless you’ve got not seven-leagued boots, but seven-leagued fins.”

“I’m sorry I bothered you about it, Dr. Crafts,” the boy answered. “I really hadn’t given the distances much thought.”

“Wait a bit,” said the Deputy Commissioner, as the boy turned to go. “I don’t want you to feel badly about your summer. What do you know about mussels?”

“Very little, sir,” the boy answered; “hardly anything.”

“Let me tell you a story about them,” the Deputy Commissioner said, smiling as the boy’s face lighted up at the word “story.” “Seven or eight centuries ago,” his friend began “that is, if you want to hear it?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” came the reply.

“That’s a long way back a small trading-vessel was wrecked in the Bay of Biscay on the west coast of France, near the little village of Esnandes. All hands were lost except one sailor, an Irishman, called Walton.”

“Sure to be an Irishman who got ashore,” commented the boy.

“This was a particularly ingenious son of Erin,” the other continued. “Although he did not speak a word of French, with the likeableness that seems to have been the chief note of the Irish character then, and which they have never lost, Walton speedily became popular in the little French village. This was the more remarkable, as there was a great scarcity of food in the village, the inhabitants depending entirely on fishing, and the fishing-grounds having become worked out. Hence the presence of a stranger for whom to provide food became a serious problem.

“But the Irish had not been the teachers and scholars of Europe during the five preceding centuries for nothing, and though Walton was but a sailor, he shared the quick-wittedness of his race. He had heard somewhere that people often starved in the midst of plenty, and he started exploring for food on his own account. The village was built near a wide stretch of mud, which was covered by the sea at high tide, but dry when the water went down, and he noticed that numbers of land-and sea-birds were in the habit of skimming over the mud at low tide, apparently picking up worms.

“Birds could be eaten, he thought. Accordingly, patching together all the old bits of net that could be found and mending the holes, the Irishman made a huge net two or three hundred yards long. Then he drove a number of stakes into the mud, working almost night and day, and stretched the net vertically about ten feet above the mud. The net was made something like a fish-trap, so that birds flying under would find it difficult to get out. On the very first night the net was spread, he caught enough birds to feed the village for a week.”

“Bully for him!” cried Colin.

“That was only the beginning,” the Deputy Commissioner continued. “The ingenious stranger now began to consider what food it was that attracted these birds, and to his surprise, instead of worms, found that they lived on an unknown black shellfish, now called mussels. If the birds ate mussels and the birds were good to eat, Walton reasoned that mussels must be fit for food. He ate some in order to find out.”

“That’s the real scientific spirit,” said Colin, laughing.

“He was Irish and willing to take a chance,” was the smiling rejoinder. “However that may be, he not only found that they were good to eat, but that they were good eating. He had hard work to persuade the villagers to his point of view, although his success with the birds had made him a sort of hero. Soon, however, mussels came to be in great demand. Then Walton noticed that young mussels in great numbers were gathering on the submerged stakes of his net, and being prolific of ideas, he promptly had several hundred more stakes cut and driven into the mud. He found, then, that mussels thus suspended over the mud grew fatter and of better flavor, and accordingly designed frames with interlacing branches which collected them by hundreds. This system, known as the ‘buchot’ system, has been practiced continuously at the village of Esnandes during all the centuries since that time, and the income to the little village last year was over one hundred and twelve thousand dollars as a result of the ingenuity of the castaway Irishman.”

“Then mussels are fit for food,” Colin said in surprise. “I thought they were only used for bait.”

“Mussels, sea-mussels that is, are as good a food as clams, some people claim that they are better, and they have just about three times as much food value as the oyster. That’s why I told you the story. We expect to make the mussel industry as important as the clam fishery, giving employment to thousands of people and establishing what is practically a new food supply in the United States, although it is common throughout the shore countries of Europe.”

“But the pearl mussels,” queried Colin, “can you eat those, too?”

“It is doubtful,” was the reply, “but their value lies so largely in their use for mother-of-pearl in the button industry, that their food value would be of only secondary importance, unless they could be pickled or canned, as is done sometimes with the sea-mussels. But, Colin,” he added, “if you think that the mussel doesn’t sound an interesting subject, let me tell you that I think it is, in itself, one of the most interesting creatures in the water. Its life history is astounding, and there are scores of problems yet to be worked out. Read this,” he added, handing the lad a Bulletin of the Bureau; “it has only just come out, and if I have judged you rightly, you’ll come here on June fifteenth so eager to get to a mussel-bed that there will be no holding you!”

Two hours later, the Deputy Commissioner, leaving the office for the day, started on his walk home, going through the park in the direction of the Smithsonian Museum. On his way he was surprised to see Colin sitting on a bench near the Fisheries Building, absolutely engrossed in a gray, paper-covered folio. Dr. Crafts recognized it as the Bulletin he had given the lad early in the afternoon, and he laughed aloud at the boyish impatience which had made it impossible for Colin even to wait until he got the book home. The Deputy Commissioner had to speak twice before he was heard.

“Well, Colin,” he said, “are you learning it off by heart?”

The boy jumped up as soon as he saw his friend, fairly stuttering with all the questions he wanted to ask.

“I’ve got to go home,” the Deputy Commissioner said, when Colin stopped to take breath; “and you’ve put queries enough to keep a staff of men answering for a week! Didn’t I tell you that there’s a world of work to be done over the mussel? But if you like to walk along, why, I’ll tell you anything I can.”

“Thanks, ever so much,” the boy said; “but what puzzles me in this Bulletin is the mussel’s marsupium, or pouch. Has a fresh-water mussel really got a pouch like a kangaroo?”

The Deputy Commissioner pushed his hat back over his forehead.

“Colin,” he said, “you have a knack of putting questions in the most awkward fashion. I suppose, in a way, the answer is ‘not quite,’ because in the kangaroo, the baby is almost completely formed when it is placed in the pouch, while in the mussel, only the egg goes there. The word ‘marsupium’ was what threw you off. What really happens is that the egg passes into this pouch or pocket in the gills, and is there fertilized as the current of water flows in and out over the gills.”

“And it stays there until it has a shell of its own, doesn’t it?” asked the boy.

“It does,” was the reply.

“Well,” said the eager questioner, “if it has a shell and is able to look out for itself, why doesn’t it? Yet the book says that it always attacks a fish and lives as a parasite for a while.”

“It doesn’t attack a fish, Colin,” the other answered; “it only fastens on to one. Besides which, although the mussel has a shell, it isn’t able to look out for itself. There is a change of form while it is fastened to the fish.”

“But doesn’t it hurt the fish?”

“Not permanently. It causes a local sore or a cyst, like the tiniest kind of a blister, in the middle of which the larva of the mussel is safely curled up and stays there until fully developed. Then the cyst breaks, the mussel drops out, and the tiny wound heals rapidly. Even a small fish, four inches in length, can carry five hundred of these little creatures on its fins and in its gills without serious injury.”

“Suppose it can’t find a fish?”

“That’s the end of the mussel, then! There is one kind of mussel that develops without going through the parasite stage, but it is not as common as the others. Curiously enough, the only way to raise the mussel artificially is by means of parasitism on the fish. As you read there, it is a simple matter to get these tiny creatures from the ‘pouch’ of the mother mussel, put them in an aquarium with some fish, and keep the water stirred up. In a few minutes the larvae will have fastened themselves on. It is wise to keep these fish in a hatchery for a month or so and then simply release them; when the mussels are ready they will drop off, and a new crop of mussels is on the way. By this means you can start them without much trouble in rivers and streams where there were none before, so that you see what chances there are for the development of the industry.”

“Are all mussels equally good for making mother-of-pearl?”

“No,” was the reply. “There are two chief commercial varieties, of different species, one larva having a hook on the shell, so that it can attach to fins or tail, the other being smaller and without hooks and making its way into the gills. But you’ll go into all that when you get to Fairport, and even after you have worked at mussels all summer there will be a lot of problems you won’t have touched. Don’t forget now, the fifteenth.”

“Never fear, Dr. Crafts,” Colin answered; “I won’t forget. I wish it were here now.”

Time did not hang heavily on the boy’s hands, for he was interested in all phases of fishing, and spent a couple of weeks on a trout stream in Northern Maine, not only catching the fish, but as he had been advised making notes of any peculiarities he saw in those he caught. Many stories had been told him of the finding of new species by young investigators, and he was amazed to see what wide differences existed in fish of the same species.

Colin examined so carefully every one he caught, that he began to think that if the fish were thrown back into the stream and hooked out again, he could recognize each one of them. His eagerness to be at work reached boiling point when a newspaper arrived at the camp with a brief item telling of the excitement caused by the finding of pearls near Fairport. Fortunately, it was only a day or two before the date set for his departure, and Colin was on the point of starting for Washington, when he received a letter ordering him to his post on the Mississippi immediately. He took the next train, and reported two days later at the hatchery.

“Are you coming for any special line of work?” the superintendent asked him. “I was informed from Washington that you were coming, but nothing was said as to the nature of your duties.”

“Nothing more than that Dr. Crafts said I should probably be working on mussels, sir,” the boy answered. “I was just told to report.”

“The Deputy Commissioner states,” the superintendent continued, looking over the letter, “that you expect to join the Bureau permanently, and that you have been doing some work at college on fishes.”

“I haven’t done very much, as yet, sir.”

“I suppose not. But I want to find out what you know about mussels.”

This put the boy on his mettle.

Colin told briefly, but quite clearly, what he remembered of the life-history of the fresh-water mussel as described in the Bulletin that had been given him, and added the information he had secured from the Deputy Commissioner. The superintendent of the station put a few leading questions to him, and nodded his head with satisfaction.

“So far as theory goes,” he said, “I think you have a fairly good idea of it, although here and there you made some statements showing the need of a good deal of practical work with mussels. But, since you seem to have a general idea of the anatomy and physiology, I think I will put you in as Dr. Edelstein’s assistant.”

“What is he doing, sir?” queried Colin.

“He is working on pearl formations,” was the answer. “You have heard, I suppose, that there has been some excitement over pearl finds?”

“Yes, I heard that away up in Maine,” the boy replied.

“It’s exaggerated a good deal,” the superintendent said; “but as a matter of fact, there have been a few good finds. Dr. Edelstein is studying the differences between oyster and mussel pearls. Of course, when one of these ‘rushes’ comes, a very large number of inferior pearls are found, which are of no commercial value but which afford good material to work on. Just now,” he added, “I think it is the most interesting part of the work. Come along, and I’ll introduce you to Dr. Edelstein.”

Colin’s new chief was an entirely different type from any of the scientists whom he had met in the Bureau. In the first place, he was a gem expert by profession, and consequently, more of a mineralogist than biologist. Tall, powerfully built, black-bearded, and abrupt, he gave an impression of volcanic force, and at the same time of great keenness. A scientist of remarkable discernment, he possessed with all his broad views a marvelous capacity for detail, and Colin soon learned that the somewhat slipshod methods of a college laboratory would not be accepted by Dr. Edelstein.

“It iss of no use to think that a result iss right!” he said, when Colin betrayed a hint of impatience at performing the same experiment over and over again, scores of times. “It iss to know for certainly, that we work.”

“I really believe, Dr. Edelstein,” Colin said, “that you would like to see this fail once or twice.”

“Of gourse! Then we find out why it iss a failure. That iss a good way to learn.”

But in spite of the strictness of the discipline under which he was kept by his chief, Colin enjoyed the work. His duties were manifold. Some days he would spend entirely in the laboratory preparing microscope slides or observing mussel parasites through the microscopes, and making copious notes. His power as a colorist stood him in good stead again, and more than once he received a rare word of praise, feeling quite elated when, one day, late in the summer, Dr. Edelstein said to him:

“I have much gonfidence in your golor sense, Golin.”

At the same station, one of the younger men was finishing a monograph on the spoonbill-cat, a sturgeon of the lower Mississippi, often six feet in length and a hundred pounds in weight, just coming into commercial importance as the source of caviare. The ‘paddle-fish,’ as the creature is often called by the negroes, because of its long paddle-shaped jaw, or ‘nose,’ formed an interesting study to Colin, for he knew enough about the make-up of fishes to realize that this was a very ancient form, midway between the sharks and the true bony fishes. The paddle-fish is closely allied to the sturgeon, and its roe has recently been found to be almost as good for caviare as the Russian variety. Thus, within ten years, a new fishing industry has developed on the Mississippi River.

In addition to his laboratory work and to his share in the investigations of his friend who was studying the paddle-fish, Colin frequently took short trips up or down the river for Dr. Edelstein, the latter being anxious to procure measurements and other data on every pearl found. It was on one of these trips that Colin had the opportunity of seeing the panicky side of a ‘pearl fever,’ of which he had heard so much. The report had come to the station that a pearl of fair size, valued at about five hundred dollars, had been found, four miles below the station, and Colin was told to go down and make a report on it as soon as he had finished his afternoon’s work. Accordingly, after supper, he took a small power-boat and ran downstream, taking with him a very sensitive pair of scales to determine the exact weight of the pearl, calipers to ascertain its size, and other instruments especially designed by Dr. Edelstein. At the same time, he was ordered to secure the shell from which the pearl had been taken, should it be obtainable.

The pearl was measured carefully and found to be a fine one, not large and not unusual in any way, though a certain irregularity in the position of its formation on the shell gave it a scientific interest. The lucky finder was entirely willing to yield up the shell of the mussel from which the pearl had been taken, and was glad to be informed as to its weight and purity. It was pleasant to Colin to see as he so often did the success of the pearl-hunters. But while the boy was examining the stone, a loud knock at the door, was heard, and a neighbor came in, breathless and excited.

“I’ve got one,” he cried. “I’ve got a big one!”

Every one present crowded round with cries of congratulation.

Slowly the newcomer opened his hand and revealed a large pearl almost twice the size of the gem Colin had been examining, and, therefore, if of equal purity, worth eight times as much. The finder handed it around, and in course of time it reached the boy, who scrutinized it carefully.

“Isn’t it a beauty?” the newcomer cried. “And just on the very last day! I haven’t a penny left in the world, and I sold my old farm to come up here. It’s been getting harder and harder for me every day, and we had decided to give it all up. I hadn’t a bit of hope left, and now !”

The cottager whose pearl Colin had come down to inspect, slapped the farmer on the back, and without a trace of enviousness for he himself had been lucky joined in his delight. The farmer’s wife had followed him more sedately, and she came in to share the general enthusiasm.

But Colin sat silent.

Over and over again, with a childish persistence, the farmer told how he had sold his farm, how he had come up with every penny he owned, how, little by little, it had all oozed away, and how in disgust he had decided to sell his boat, which would give him just enough money to get back to Missouri.

“But now, Mary,” he said, “we can go back and get a better farm than we ever had, and we’ll have a house in the village so that the children can go to a good school, and you’ll have lots o’ friends, and pretty things about you. It’s been hard, neighbors, I tell you,” he said, looking round; “but the luck has turned at last.”

Colin said not a word, but kept his eyes fixed on the table. His host, the mussel-gatherer, whose stone he had been examining, noticed this, but the newcomer was boisterous in his joy. He babbled of the wealth that was his, until if the stone had been a diamond of equal size, it would not have sufficed to have financed his dreams.

But the boy with the instruments on the table before him, said not a word of congratulation or delight. He had only seen the pearl for a moment, but he knew.

With hearty and jovial hospitality, the farmer invited every one in the room to come and stay with him as soon as he was settled down. He would show them, he said, what real life was like on a farm.

Suddenly he stopped.

“Mister!” he said, in an altered voice.

Colin, sitting alone, still beside his testing instruments, did not look up.

“Mister!” he said again.

In spite of himself the boy raised his eyes. Do what he might, he could not keep the sorrow out of them, and those of the finder of the pearl met his fairly.

The room was full of people but it grew still as death.

The woman clasped her husband’s arm and gave a low moan. He touched her shoulder gently.

“Mister,” he said again, with a humbleness that seemed strangely gentle after all his bluster and brag, “will you look at this and tell me what you think it’s worth?”

“I’m not an expert,” the boy said hastily. “I couldn’t judge its value. You ought to take it to some one that knows all about these things.”

“I can see what you think,” the farmer said with a pitiful, sad smile; “you think it isn’t worth much. Is it worth anything at all?”

Colin took the discolored pearl and looked at it closely. He put it on the scales and weighed it carefully, measured it, and scrutinized it as closely as he could in the lamplight, but he knew himself that these were devices to gain time. The pearl showed all too clearly a flaw that would make it valueless. Every one waited for his verdict. He was conscious that his voice was a little shaky, but he answered as steadily as he could:

“I’m afraid, sir ”

“Well?”

“I don’t believe, sir ”

“That it’s worth anything at all?” the farmer interrupted.

A solemn dignity, the accompaniment of great trouble, came to the man’s aid and gave him strength. “Thank you,” he said; “I understand.”

He looked around with a troubled glance and saw the far smaller but more valuable pearl that his neighbor had found, which was still lying on the table beside the instruments. A strong shiver shook him, but he made no other sign. He turned to Colin.

“I see that it’s no good,” he said, “but I shall keep it just the same. If you have finished with it ”

Colin stood up and placed the pearl in his hand.

“Please take it to some one else right away,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep suppose I were wrong!”

The old farmer looked at him gravely.

“No man would do as you have done and say what you have said, unless it was so clear that he couldn’t help but know,” he replied. He turned to the neighbors. “I’m afraid,” he said, “I have in part spoiled your pleasure, and,” he added, with a twitch of the muscles of his face, “made a fool of myself, besides. Come, Mary, we’ll go home.”

The others pressed forward with words of sympathy, but the stricken man paid no heed and passed out of the door. Colin sat heavily back in his chair staring moodily at the instruments, his heart sore within him, but he knew he could have done nothing else. Yet the thought of the old farmer’s sorrow was powerfully before him, and he had to keep a strong grip on himself to keep from showing an unmanly emotion.

Outside the little cottage could be heard a murmur of voices, as the old farmer tried to comfort his wife, while inside the house no one spoke lest he should seem careless of the grief and disappointment of those who were still within hearing. Suddenly a third voice was heard outside, speaking excitedly. Once again that tense clutch of suppressed emotion permeated the room and Colin, with his heart in his mouth, looked up. No one moved. Outside the voices ceased.

Then, through the open door, rushed a boy about twelve years old, muddy from head to foot, but with his two eyes shining like lights from his grimy face. The mussel-gatherer recognized instantly the farmer’s son.

“What is it, John?” he asked.

“I was goin’ over some shells father hadn’ opened, after he’d found that other pearl, an’ I got this! Father he says the other one’s no good an’ that this isn’ likely to be any better! But I don’ know! It looks all right!”

He glanced down at the object in his hand.

“Father said it was no good,” he repeated, a little less certainly; “but I don’ know.”

He held out his hand and passed the pearl to the mussel-gatherer, who glanced at it hastily.

“Mr. Dare!” he said excitedly.

Colin looked up and caught his glance, then tried to take the stone. But his hand shook as though he were in a violent fever, and the mussel-gatherer placed it on the table beside his own, in front of the boy. Clear, flawless, and of fair size, it gleamed like a star of hope before them all. A moment’s examination was enough. Leaping from his seat Colin seized the pearl and rushed out of the door.

“It’s real, sir; it’s real!” he cried. “And will do all you said!”

The old farmer never looked at him. He turned his face toward the stars and reverently removed his hat.