During the month of May, the members of the two clubs continued to spend many of their leisure hours on the lake; but my young friends must not suppose that life was to them a continuous holiday; and, because these books are devoted chiefly to their doings on the water, that boating was the only, or the principal business that occupied them.  They had their school duties to perform, their errands to do, wood to split, yards to sweep; in short, they had to do just like other boys.  A portion of Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, and of their other holidays, was given to these aquatic sports; so that they were really on the lake but a small part of the time.  Probably, if they had spent all their leisure in the boats, the exercise would have lost its attractions, besides interfering very much with their home and school affairs.  Pleasures, to be enjoyed, should be partaken of in moderation.  Boys get sick of most sports in a short time, because they indulge in them too freely.

Nothing specially worthy of note occurred in either club till near the end of the month of May.  The intimacy between Charles Hardy and Tim Bunker was observed to increase, though no one had any suspicion of the secret which had cemented the bond of their union.

The lost purse was the property of Mr. Walker.  At a subsequent visit to Rippleton, he had mentioned his loss, but he had no idea where he had dropped it.  Tim congratulated his still unwilling confederate on the success of his villainy.  Mr. Walker did not even know whether he had lost his money in the town or not; so, of course, he had no suspicion of them.

“You are a first-rate fellow, Charley, but you are too chickenish by half,” said Tim Bunker.

“I don’t feel right about it, and I wish I had given up the purse when I found it.”

“Pooh!”

“I meant to do so.”

“I know you did.  You were just fool enough to do such a thing.  If it hadn’t been for me, you would have done it.”

“O, I wish I had!”

“Don’t be a fool, Charley.”

“I would give the world to feel as I felt before I did this thing.”

“Don’t think any more about it.”

“I can’t help thinking.  It worries me nights.”

“Go to sleep then.”

“I can’t.  What would Frank say if he knew it?”

“Humph!  Frank again!”

“They would turn me out of the club.”

“You are no worse than any of the rest of them.”

“They wouldn’t steal,” replied Charles, warmly.

“Don’t you believe it.  If I should tell all I know about some of them, they wouldn’t be safe where they are, let me tell you.”

“What do you know, Tim?”

“I don’t choose to tell.”

Charles found some satisfaction in this indefinite accusation; but it was not enough to quiet his troubled conscience.  Life seemed different to him since he had stolen the purse-he had not got far enough in wickedness yet to believe that it was not stolen.  He felt guilty, and his sense of guilt followed him wherever he went.  He could not shake it off.  Everybody seemed to look reproachfully at him.  He avoided his companions in the club when not on duty with them.  He began to hate Frank Sedley, though he could not tell the reason.  William Bright, who was now the coxswain, Frank’s term having expired, was a very strict disciplinarian, and the guilty boy had grown very impatient of restraint.  He was surly and ill-natured when the coxswain rebuked him, even in the kindest tones.  Everything went wrong with him, for the worm was gnawing at his heart.

“Won’t you tell me, Tim?” asked he, in reply to Tim’s remark.

“Not now, Charley; one of these days you shall know all about it.”

“I am afraid we shall both get turned out of the club.”

“No we shan’t; if we do - But no matter.’

“What would you do, Tim?”

“Never mind now, Charley.  I have a plan in my head.  Captain Sedley told me the other day if I didn’t behave better I should be turned out.”

“Then you will be.”

“I don’t care if I am.  If they turn me out, they will make a mistake; that’s all.”

There was something mysterious in the words of the Bunker which excited the curiosity of Charles.  He could not help wondering what he would do.  Tim had so much resolution he was sure it was not an idle boast.

“I know what I am about,” continued Tim, with a wise look.

“Captain Sedley says you still associate with your old companions,” added Charles.

“What if I do?”

“That would be ground enough for turning you out.”

“Would it?  They are better fellows than you long faces, and you will say so when you know them,” replied Tim, speaking as though it were a settled fact that he would know them by and by.

This conversation occurred one Wednesday afternoon, as the two boys were on their way to the boat-house.  On their arrival, Tim was informed by Captain Sedley, who was apparently there for that purpose, that he was expelled from the club.  It was sudden and unexpected, and had been done by the director without any action on the part of the club.

“What for?” asked Tim, in surly tones.

“I find that you still associate with your old companions, which is sufficient proof that you don’t mean to reform,” answered the director.

“I don’t care,” growled Tim, as he turned on his heel and walked out of the hall.

Charles Hardy was then called aside by Captain Sedley, who kindly pointed out to him the danger he incurred in associating with such a boy as Tim.

“I would not have kept company with him if he had not been a member of the club,” replied Charles.

“He was admitted to the club on the supposition that he intended to be a better boy.”

“I was opposed to admitting him,” answered Charles, rather sulkily.

“I was very willing the boy should have a fair chance to reform; but when it became apparent that he did not mean to do better, I could no longer permit him to endanger the moral welfare of the club.  We have been satisfied for some time; and most of the boys, after giving him a fair trial, avoided him as much as possible when they saw what he meant.  But you have been growing more and more intimate with him every day.  Why, it was only last night that he was seen with some twenty or thirty of his old companions.  They seemed to be in consultation about something.  Perhaps you were with them.”

“No, sir; I was not.”

“I am glad you were not.  I caution you to avoid them.”

“I will, sir,” replied Charles, meekly; and he meant what he said.

“I am glad to hear you say so:  I was afraid you had known too much of Tim Bunker,” said the director, as he walked towards his house.

Charles entered the hall, and took his seat.

“Those in favor of admitting Samuel Preston to the club will signify it,” said William, as soon as he was in his place.

Eleven hands were raised, and the new member, who stood by the window waiting the result, was declared to be admitted.  The constitution was then read to him, and he signed it; after which the club embarked for an excursion up to the strait, where they had agreed to meet the Butterfly.

The particular object of this visit was to erect a lighthouse on Curtis Island, a small, rocky place, separated from the main shore by “Calrow Strait,” which the readers of “The Boat Club” will remember.  The navigation of this portion of the lake was considered very difficult, especially through the narrow passage, and it was thought to be absolutely necessary to have a lighthouse, mauger the fact that the boats always sailed by day.  But as neither craft was insured, it was necessary to use extraordinary precautions!

A working party of half a dozen was detailed from each boat, consisting of the stoutest boys, who were landed upon the island.  Materials were immediately gathered and the foundation laid.  The structure was to be a simple round tower, as high as the patience of the workmen would permit them to build it.

In a short time all the rocks on the island had been used up, and the lighthouse was only two feet high; but this contingency had been anticipated, and provisions made for supplying more stone.  A large rock was attached to the long painter of the Butterfly, and she was moored at a safe distance from the island, while her remaining crew were transferred to the Zephyr.

A rude raft, which had been provided by Tony, was towed to the shore, where an abundance of rocks were to be had.  It was their intention to load it with “lighthouse material,” and tow it to the island.  It required all their skill to accomplish this object, for the raft was a most ungainly thing to manage.  The Zephyr was so long that they could not row round so as to bring the raft alongside the bank, and when they attempted to push it in, the paint, and even the planks of the boat, were endangered.

“Can’t get it in-can we?” said Charles Hardy, after several unsuccessful attempts.

“There is no such word as fail,” replied William.  “Bring me the long painter.”

The coxswain unfastened the tow line of the raft, and tied the painter to it.

“Bowman, stand by with the boat-hook, ready to land.”

“Ay, ay!”

“Now, pull steady; be careful she does not grind on the rocks; easy, there.  Four of you jump ashore.”

The four forward rowers obeyed the command.

“Now pass this line ashore, and let them pull in on the raft,” continued William.

“Hurrah! there she is!” shouted Frank.  “That was done handsomely!”

“We could have done it before, if we had only thought of it,” replied William, laughing.  “Now put out the fenders, and haul the boat alongside the raft.”

Four more of the boys were sent on shore to help roll down the rocks, and two were ordered upon the raft to place them.  A great deal of hard work was done in a very short time; but, as it was play, no one minded it, as probably some of them would if the labor had been for any useful purpose.  In due time the raft was loaded with all it would carry, and the boys were ordered into the boat again.

The raft proved to be a very obstinate sailer.  After a deal of hard tugging at the oars, they succeeded in getting it under a tolerable headway; but the tow line was not properly attached, and it “heeled over” so as to be in danger of “spilling” its load into the lake.  Prudence and good management, however, on the part of the coxswain, conveyed it in safety to the island, and its freight soon became “part and parcel” of the lighthouse.

Two or three loads more were brought, after the lesson of experience obtained in getting the first, with but comparatively little difficulty; and at six o’clock the tower received its capstone at a height of six feet from the ground, and twelve from the water.

The lighthouse was then inaugurated by a volley of cheers.  A hollow pumpkin of last year’s growth, containing a lighted candle, was placed upon the apex; and then the boats departed for home.  At eight o’clock, when the darkness had gathered upon the lake, they saw the light from their homes, and had the satisfaction of knowing that the light-keeper was watchful of the safety of vessels in those waters.

As Charles Hardy passed through the grove on his way home, after the club separated, he met Tim Bunker, who was apparently awaiting his coming.