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A grin rippled across his face and grew into a chuckle. "I bet I sleep in the barn fer a week. I sure hate the smell of sulphur." Billy felt his cheeks turn hot. "I might," he returned, "an' ag'in, I mightn't." "He shall wait upon you at the stroke, sir.".

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Billy eyed him appraisingly. He did look like a tough proposition, no doubt about that. His face was round, flat, small-featured. "That face'll stand a lot of pummelin'," Billy told himself, and as he noted the heavy chin, thrust antagonistically forward, "no use bruisin' my knuckles on that," he decided. At such times expert indeed must be the hand that guides the frail skiff through those treacherous seas. But the slim punt which rounded Mud Point betwixt the darkness and the dawn, in the teeth of an all night gale, was propelled by one who knew every whimsical mood of Rond Eau. Now high on frothy comber, now lost to view between the waves, the little craft beat onward, a speck of driftwood on the angry waves. Sullen daylight was revealing a world of wind-whipped, spray-drenched desolation when the punt at last rounded the point and swept into the comparative calm of the lee shore. Then the rower shipped his oars and glanced at his companion who sat huddled low in the bow of the boat, the collar of his shooting coat turned high about his ears. "There it is!" said Miss Acton. "Give me a sea as smooth as our lawn, and I will accompany you, my dear." "No, er the buried money," sighed Cobin..