the black schooner, which lazily rolled her gleaming sides off the end of the Breakwater. Wilson climbed awkwardly aboard and was saved from sprawling his length on deck by a strong hand, which yanked him in a welcoming grip. Then a stocky man with a grizzled mustache stepped back and fairly shouted:
"Why, hell! You ain't 'Doc' Wilson. What kind of a game is this? I popped up from below in time to see your hat coming over the side. Kick me, please. I'm dreamin', as sure as my name's McCall."
He fished a rumpled telegram from his blue clothes, and flourished it before the nose of his guest, as he cried formidably:
"Read that!"
"'Doc' Wilson, of the Standard, will be down on afternoon train. Take him aboard and treat him right."
Young Wilson looked at the half mile of water between the schooner and the beach, and thought of trying to swim for
