finished Fred, and went on: "Songbird, if you've got to make up poetry give us something cheerful. Can't you make up something about—er—about circus clowns, or apple pie, or—er"
"Circus clowns or apple pie!" snorted the would-be poet, in deep disgust. "Well, you are the limit, Fred Garrison. No, I can't make up poetry about circus pie or apple clo—I mean apple clowns or circus—Oh, pshaw, you know what I mean"
"I didn't mention mixed pickles," observed Fred, demurely. "But if you can mix—What's that?"
He stopped short and straightened up on the launch seat, and so did Songbird. Both had heard voices at a distance.
"They must be coming back," said Songbird. "It didn't take them long."
They listened, and set up a call, but no answer came back. Then they looked around searchingly.
"That's funny," murmured Fred.
"I don't think it's funny," was the low answer. "Something is wrong."
"Help! My foot is caught!" came presently, in a muffled voice. "Hello, the launch! Help me somebody, quick!"
"Who is that calling?" asked Songbird.
"Somebody of our crowd and in trouble," an-
