“No, I don't.”      

       “Well, I guess there's lots of girls that does.”      

       “Oh, I s'pose he's all right.”      

       After a silence Mamie glanced shyly up at him.     

       “Say, you're a friend of his, ain't you? You won't tell him what I say?”      

       “Should say not!” said Badeau, feeling in advance a little embarrassed. Mamie poked at the sand with her parasol as they walked.     

       “Well—folks say he drinks.”      

       “Who says so?”      

       “Jess Bartlett's brother told Jess.” Badeau's eyes flashed.     

       “He's a dam' liar!”      

       “O—oh,” faltered Mamie.     

       There was a long silence. Then Badeau said, “Excuse me,” and looked out over the water with a scared face. The girls who had played a part in his life had not objected to profanity. When he had gathered enough courage to look again at her, there was an expression on her face that puzzled him. He did not know that he had pleased as well as startled her. Soon they were at the pier and were talking more easily. To sit by her, and to watch her bright eyes and her fresh coloring, pleased Hunch in a way that he did not try to understand. He had such a good time that he forgot Bruce, who was struggling to make conversation with the other girls. When at last he went back to the schooner, he was thoughtful. She seemed too good for Bruce.     

       In the afternoon Badeau took on a short cargo of hemlock cribbing, and worked laboriously out of the sand-locked harbor and through the channel between the long breakwaters. He could not afford a tug.     

       The next morning they lay at the wharf in Manitowoc. They ate their supper in silence, the three of them about the table in the dirty cabin. When they had finished, 

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