weather didn’t improve. It didn’t seem very bad in there, but I guess he thought the open water outside would be pretty rough. There was a lot of it out there to get rough, anyhow. So we got fixed to loaf all day and wait for the wind to go down.

There were some books down in the cabin, and I got settled to read, but Catty wasn’t in a reading humor. He wanted to do something, and finally he made up his mind to take the little dinghy and row ashore. So I went along with him. We walked all over Newport in the rain, and bought some post cards to send home, and some candy. Then we stopped in the yacht club station, and there was a book on the table called Lloyd’s Register of Yachts, or something like that, and we looked in it, and there was the name of every yacht in America with its dimensions and who owned it. We found our boat, and then Catty says, “Let’s see who owns the Porpoise.” So we looked it up; it belonged to Jonas P. Dunn.

“H’m,” says Catty, “that’s the man the telegram went to.”

“So it is,” says I.

“Then he’s the boss pirate,” says Catty, “and these fellows here are only hired men, like you might say.”

“Sure,” says I, “but what of it?”

“We might find out,” says he, “if Topper ever heard of a man named Dunn.”

“And then what?”

“Why,” says Catty, “then we’d know.”

“Know what?”

“If he’d ever heard of him,” Catty says with a grin.

Well, we loafed around some more, and then rowed back to the Albatross, and it was some row right into the teeth of the wind. Catty had rowed in, and it was my turn to row back. I kind of wondered why he volunteered to take the first turn, but I saw now. He’d figured out the wind would blow us into the dock, but it would take tough work to get us back.

“You’re a sweet one,” says I.

“What’s the matter?” says he, as innocent as a pint of cream.

“Why,” says I, “rowing in so’s I’d have to row back against 

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