The finding of one of Cap’n Amazon’s amazing narratives of personal prowess in the old scrapbook shocked Louise Grayling. The mystery of the thing made alert her brain and awoke in the girl vague suspicions that troubled her for hours. Indeed, it was long that night before she could get to sleep.

During these days of acquaintanceship and familiarity with the old sea captain she had learned to love him so well for his good qualities that it was easy for her to forgive his faults. If he “drew the long bow” in relating his adventures, his niece was prepared to excuse the failing.

There was, too, an explanation of this matter, and one not at all improbable. The reporter of the Mercury claimed to have taken down the story of the black man who had fought a shark for the life of his dog just as it fell from the lips of an ancient mariner. This mariner might have been Cap’n Amazon Silt himself. Why not? The captain might have been more modest in relating his personal connection with the incident when talking with the reporter than he had been in relating the story to his niece.

Still, even with this suggested explanation welcomed to her mind, Louise Grayling was puzzled. She went through the entire scrapbook, skimming the stories there related, to learn if any were familiar. But no. She found nothing to suggest any of the other tales Cap’n Amazon had related in her hearing. And it was positive that her uncle had not read this particular story of the black man and the black dog since coming to the store on the Shell Road, for Louise had had possession of the book.

Therefore she was quite as mystified when she fell asleep at dawn as she had been when first her discovery was made. She was half determined to probe for an explanation of the coincidence when she came downstairs to a late breakfast. But no good opportunity presented itself for the broaching of any such inquiry.

She wished to make preparations for the fishing party in the Merry Andrew, and that kept her in the kitchen part of the day. She baked a cake and made filling for sandwiches.

Betty Gallup accepted the invitation to accompany Louise on the sloop without hesitation. She approved of Lawford Tapp. Yet she dropped nothing in speaking of the young man to open Louise’s eyes to the fact that he was the son of a multi-millionaire.

The activities of the moving picture company increased on this day; but it was not until the following morning, when Louise went shoreward with the tackle and the smaller lunch basket, that she again saw Mr. Judson Bane to speak to. As she sat upon the thwart of the old skiff where Washy Gallup had mended his net, the handsome leading man of the picture company strolled by.

Bane certainly made a picturesque fisherman, whether he looked much like the native breed or not. An open-air studio had been arranged on the beach below the Bozewell bungalow, and Louise could see a director trying to give a number of actors his idea of what a group of fishermen mending their nets should look like.

“He should engage old Washy Gallup to give color to the group,” Louise said to Bane, laughing.

“Anscomb is having his own troubles with that bunch,” sighed the leading man. “Some of them never saw a bigger net before than one to catch minnows. Do you sail in this sloop I see coming across from the millionaire’s villa, Miss Grayling?”

“Yes,” Louise replied. “Mr. Tapp is kind enough to take us fishing.”

“You are, then, one of these fortunate creatures,” and Bane’s sweeping gesture indicated that he referred to the occupants of the cottages set along the bluff above The Beaches, “who toil not, neither do they spin. I fancied you might be one of us. Rather, I’ve heard that down here.”

“That surmise gained coinage when I first arrived at Cardhaven,” Louise said, dimpling. “I did nothing to discourage the mistake, and I presume Gusty Durgin still believes I pose before the camera.”

“Gusty has aspirations that way herself,” chuckled Bane. “She is a character.”

“I wonder what kind of screen actress I would make?”

He smiled down at her rather grimly. “The kind the directors call the appealing type, I fancy, Miss Grayling. Though I have no doubt you would do much better than most. Making big eyes at a camera is the limit of art achieved by many of our feminine screen stars. I do not expect to put in a very pleasant summer amid my present surroundings.”

“Oh, then you are here for more than one picture.”

“Several, if the weather proves propitious. I shall play the fisherman hero, or the villain, until my manager has my new play ready in the fall. Believe me, Miss Grayling, I am not in love with this picture drama. But when one is offered for his resting season half as much again as he can possibly earn during the run of a legitimate Broadway production he must not be blamed for accepting the contract. We all bow to the power of gold.”

Louise, whose gaze was fixed upon the approaching sloop, smiled. She was thinking; “All but Lawford Tapp, the philosophic fisherman!”

“I believe,” Bane said, with flattery, “that I should delight to play opposite to you, Miss Grayling, rank amateur though you would be. This Anscomb really is a wonderful director and gets surprising results from material that cannot compare with you. I’ll speak to him if you say the word. He’d oblige me, I am sure. One of the scripts he has told me about has a part fitted to you.”

“Oh, Mr. Bane!” she cried. “I’d have to think about that, I fear. And such a tempting offer! Now, if you said that to Gusty Durgin ­”

At the moment Betty Gallup came into view. Masculine in appearance at any time in her man’s hat and coat, she was doubly so now. She frankly wore overalls, but had drawn a short skirt over them; and she wore gum boots. Bane stared at this apparition and gasped:

“Is ­is it a man ­or what?”

“Why, Mr. Bane! That is my chaperon.”

“Chaperon! Ye gods and little fishes! Miss Grayling, no matter where you go, or with whom, you are perfectly safe with that as a chaperon.”

“How rediculous, Mr. Bane!” the girl cried, laughing. Betty strode through the sand to the spot where they stood. “This is Mr. Bane, Betty,” Louise continued, “Mrs. Gallup, Mr. Bane.”

The actor swept off his sou’wester with a flourish. Betty eyed him with disfavor.

“So you’re one o’ them play-actors, be you? Land sakes! And tryin’ to look like a fisherman, too! I don’t s’pose you know a grommet from the bight of a hawser.”

“Guilty as charged,” Bane admitted with a chuckle. “But we all must live, Mrs. Gallup.”

“Humph!” grunted the old woman. “Are you sure that’s so in ev’ry case? There’s more useless folks on the Cape now than the Recordin’ Angel can well take care on.”

“Oh, Betty!” Louise gasped.

But Bane was highly amused. “I’m not at all sure you’re not right, Mrs. Gallup. I sometimes feel that if I were a farmer and raised onions, or a fisherman and caught the denizens of the sea, I might feel a deeper respect for myself. As it is, when I work I am only playing.”

“Humph!” exploded Betty again. “‘Denizens of the sea,’ eh? New one on me. I ain’t never heard of them fish afore.”

The sail of the sloop slatted and then came down with the rattle of new canvas. Having let go the sheet, Lawford ran forward and pitched the anchor over. Then he drew in the skiff that trailed the Merry Andrew, stepped in, and sculled himself ashore, beaching the boat, just as Cap’n Amazon came down from the store with a second basket of supplies.

“Wish I was goin’ with ye,” he said heartily. “Would, too, if I could shut up shop. But I promised Abe I’d stay by the ship till he come home again.”

Louise introduced her uncle to Mr. Bane; but during the bustle of getting into the skiff and pushing off she overlooked the fact that Lawford and the actor were not introduced.

“Bring us home a mess of tautog,” Cap’n Amazon shouted. “I sartainly do fancy blackfish when they’re cooked right. Bile ’em, an’ serve with an egg sauce, is my way o’ puttin’ ’em on the table.”

“That was Cap’n Abe’s way, too,” muttered Betty.

The cloud on Lawford Tapp’s countenance did not lift immediately as he sculled them out to the anchored sloop. Louise saw quickly that his ill humor was for Bane.

“I must keep this young man at a distance,” she thought, as she waved her hand to Uncle Amazon and Mr. Bane. “He takes too much for granted, I fear. Perhaps, after all, I should have excused myself from this adventure.”

She eyed Lawford covertly as, with swelling muscles and lithe, swinging body, he drove his sculling oar. “But he does look more ’to the manner born’ ­much more the man, in fact ­than that actor!”

Lawford could not for long forget his duty as host, and he was as cheerful and obliging as usual by the time the three had scrambled aboard the Merry Andrew.

Immediately Betty Gallup cast aside her skirt and stood forth untrammeled in the overalls. “Gimme my way and I’d wear ’em doin’ housework and makin’ my garding,” she declared. “Land sakes! I allus did despise women’s fooleries.”

Louise laughed blithely.

“Why, Betty,” she said, “lots of city women who do their own housework don ‘knickers’ or gymnasium suits to work in. No excuse is needed.”

“Humph!” commented the old woman. “I had no idée city women had so much sense. The ones I see down here on the Cape don’t show it.”

The morning breeze was light but steady. The Merry Andrew was a sweetly sailing boat and Lawford handled her to the open admiration of Betty Gallup. The old woman’s comment would have put suspicion in Louise’s mind had the girl not been utterly blind to the actual identity of the sloop’s owner.

“Humph! you’re the only furiner, Lawford Tapp, I ever see who could sail a smack proper. But you got Cape blood in you ­that’s what ’tis.”

“Thank you, Betty,” he returned, with the ready smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “That is a compliment indeed.”

The surf only moaned to-day over Gull Rocks, for there was little ground swell. The waves heaved in, with an oily, leisurely motion and, it being full sea, merely broke with a streak of foam marking the ugly reef below.

A little to the seaward side of the apex of the reef Betty, at a word from Lawford, cast loose the sheet and then dropped the anchor.

“Mussel beds all about here,” explained the young man to his guest. “That means good feeding for the blackfish. Can’t catch them anywhere save on a rock bottom, or around old spiles or sunken wrecks. Better let me rig your line, Miss Grayling. You’ll need a heavier sinker than that for outside here ­ten ounces at least. You see, the tug of the undertow is considerable.”

Betty Gallup, looking every whit the “able seaman” now, rigged her own line quickly and opened the bait can.

“Land sakes!” she exclaimed. “Where’d you get scallop bait this time o’ year, Lawford? You must be a houn’ dog for smellin’ ’em out.”

“I am,” he laughed. “I know that tautog will leave mussels for scallop any time. And we’ll have the eyes of the scallops fried for lunch. They’re all ready in the cabin.”

The pulpy, fat bodies of the scallop ­a commercial waste ­were difficult to hang upon the short, blunt hooks; but Lawford seemed to have just the knack of it. He showed Louise how to lower the line to the proper depth, advising:

“Remember, you’ll only feel a nibble. The tautog is a shy fish. He doesn’t swallow hook, line, and sinker like a hungry cod. You must snap him quick when he takes the hook, for his mouth is small and you must get him instantly ­or not at all.”

Louise found this to be true. Her hooks were “skinned clean” several times before she managed to get inboard her first fish.

She learned, too, why the tackle for tautog has to be so strong. Once hooked, the fish darts straight down under rocks or into crevasses, and sulks there. He comes out of that ambush like a chunk of lead.

The party secured a number of these dainty fish; but to lend variety to the day’s haul they got the anchor up after luncheon and ran down to the channels there to chum for snappers. Lawford had brought along rods; for to catch the young and gamey bluefish one must use an entirely different rigging from that used for tautog.

Louise admired the rod Lawford himself used. She knew something about fancy tackle, and this outfit of the young man, she knew, never cost a penny less than a hundred dollars.

“And this sloop, which is his property,” she thought, “is another expensive possession. I can see where his money goes ­when he has any to spend. He is absolutely improvident. Too bad.”

She had to keep reminding herself, it seemed, of Lawford Tapp’s most glaring faults. Improvidence and a hopeless leaning toward extravagance were certainly unforgivable blemishes in the character of a young man in the position she believed Lawford held.

The sport of chumming for snappers, even if they hooked more of sluggish fluke than of the gamier fish to tempt which the chopped bait is devoted, was so exciting that Betty, sailing the sloop, overlooked a pregnant cloud that streaked up from the horizon almost like a puff of cannon smoke.

The squall was upon them so suddenly that Louise could not wind in her line in good season. Lawford was quicker; but in getting his tackle inboard he was slow to obey Betty’s command:

“Let go that sheet! Want to swamp us, foolin’ with that fancy fish rod?”

“Aye, aye, skipper!” he sang out, laughing, and jumped to cast off the line in question just as the sail bulged taut as a drumhead with the striking squall.

There was a “lubber’s loop” in the bight of the sheet and as the young man loosed it his arm was caught in this trap. The boom swung viciously outboard and Lawford went with it. He was snatched like some inanimate object over the sloop’s rail and, the next instant, plunged beneath the surface of the suddenly foam-streaked sea.