This reed had broken. I never had much faith in it.

I had more confidence in a plan I then set in motion. I have a friend in London of the name of Flynn. He is an American newspaper man. Flynn says he would like to be a "journalist," but needs the money; therefore he continues to be a newspaper man, and he is a good one.

Flynn is connected with one of the big news associations and after drifting with the tide of cab and omnibus traffic which gorges on Fleet Street, I finally located him in an office in New Bridge Street. I had not seen him in five years.

"Hello, Smith!" he exclaimed, placidly as if we had spent the preceding evening together. "When did you strike town?"

"Last night," I said, heartily shaking hands.

"I see that you recently put a crimp in that Wall Street gang," he observed, lighting a cigarette and leaning back in his chair. "You were in with Harding on that deal, weren't you?"

"Yes," I said, "and I'm looking for him."

I briefly told him of the death of my uncle, and explained that Harding had left suddenly and that it was necessary I should locate him without delay.

"He was in London stopping at the Savoy a week ago," said Flynn, after consulting a record book. "I sent a man to see him and he wouldn't be seen. No use for you to go there; they won't tell you where he went."

"But can you help me locate him?" I eagerly asked.

"Certainly I can, provided you stand the tolls," he said. "Electricity is as rapid here as in the United States, and if this magnate is on one of these islands we can get his address in four or five hours, if we have any kind of luck. Suppose we wire the twenty larger cities and towns, about the same number of summer resorts, and the leading golf centres?"

"Great scheme, Flynn!" I declared, "you're a natural detective."

"Natural nothing," growled that clever individual, "it's a part of the regular grind. It should be no great trick to find a man worth thirty millions in an area not much bigger than Illinois."

He wrote a telegram, dictated the list of places to his stenographer and turned to me.

"Any engagement for dinner?" he asked, and when I said I had none he suggested we go to the Savage Club. We did so, and that dinner was the first enjoyable episode in many dismal weeks. The quiet charm of the old club, together with its famous ale, had a soothing effect on my nerves, and after several pleasant hours we took a cab back to his office.

Flynn disappeared for a minute and when he returned he handed me a stack of telegrams.

"There are some reports already in," he said. "Look them over while I attend to the work for which I'm supposed to draw salary."

I read them hurriedly. There was no news of the Hardings from Birmingham, Manchester, Nottingham, Leeds, Liverpool, Brighton, Blackpool, and a score of other places. Then I opened one from Glasgow. They had been in Glasgow, but had left. I was on the trail, and announced the news to Flynn. He smiled and again bent over his work.

In a few minutes a boy came in with more telegrams. They had been in Edinburgh on the day following their visit to Glasgow, but were not there now.

"They were in Edinburgh four days ago," I declared.

"Probably headed for St. Andrews," said Flynn, stopping in the middle of a sentence he was dictating. "Don't bother me, Smith, I'm busy."

I spent the next half hour studying a map of Great Britain on which I mentally traced Her course from London to Glasgow and from there to Edinburgh. Another batch of telegrams from Plymouth, Hull, Dublin, Southampton, Newcastle, York, Hastings, and lesser places was silent concerning the missing Hardings.

It was ten o'clock in the evening when the boy handed me three envelopes. I read the first two and threw them on the floor. Without glancing at the date line I read the third one. It ran:

"Robert L. Harding, wife and daughter at the Caledonia.—Jones."

It was dated St. Andrews.

"I've found them!" I declared. Flynn was just closing his desk. His day's work was ended and he was in better humour.

"Where are they?" he asked, throwing a mass of stuff into a waste basket.

"St. Andrews."

"Of course. Every American golf crank heads for St. Andrews from the same fanatical instinct which impels a Mohammedan to steer for Mecca."

A study of the time tables showed that I could take a late night train which would place me in Edinburgh early in the morning.

"I'm indebted to you for this more than you realise," I said to him.

"Don't mention it."

"How much do I owe your concern for this service?"

"Couldn't tell you," asserted Flynn. "Won't know until the bills come in, and that will take a month or more. I'll have them tabbed up and send you a statement, you send a cheque and that will end it."

"If there is anything I can do for you I—"

"Nothing," interrupted Flynn, "unless you should happen to run across the New York plutocrat who hires me. You might tell him that unless he tilts my salary he is likely to lose the most valuable man who ever produced dividends for him."

"I'll do that!" I declared, and I meant it.

Two hours later my train rumbled out of the station and headed for Scotland. I had been supremely satisfied with my progress during the day, but when I began to analyse the situation I was unable to discover any sound basis for self-congratulation.

I merely had ascertained her probable location. That did not improve my prospects. I had not the slightest reason to believe that she had changed her attitude toward me, and I had no right to assume that she would receive, much less listen to me. She might be married, and probably was. I thought of these things and fell from the fool's heaven to which I had climbed.

But on I went toward Scotland. I would drink the cup to its lees. I foil into a troubled sleep, and after a miserable night did not know whether to be pleased or scared that I had finished the longer stage of my journey.

The early morning train from out Edinburgh's dingy station carried one passenger who paid small attention to the scenery between the beautiful capital of Scotland and its famous university town. My one thought when we crossed over the great bridge which spans the Firth of Forth was that it was unconscionably long, and that the train slackened its speed in taking it.

Then we came to a junction within sight of St. Andrews, and when I was informed by the railway agent that I would have to wait half an hour for a connection I told him that I would walk down the track. He informed me that this was against the law. Having some familiarity with the monotony with which the laws are enforced in Scotland, I smoked and waited.

The railroad skirts the links of St. Andrews, and from its pictures I recognised the club house. Disdaining to ask questions or take a carriage, I ordered my luggage to a hotel and started on a brisk walk, hoping thus to brace myself for the ordeal ahead of me.

She was here. Somewhere in this picturesque old town she was living and breathing that very moment. She had passed through the street which then resounded with my brisk footsteps. Her name had been Grace Harding. Was it yet Grace Harding?

I ran square into Carter!

"Why, my dear Smith!" he exclaimed, clutching at his monocle which came as near falling as it well could and remain in place. "Why don't you call 'Fore!' when you drive ahead like this? You're in Scotland, my dear fellow!"

I begged his pardon, though of course it was not necessary. We heartily shook hands—at least he did.

We were on a corner of a crooked and cobblestoned street which twists around the side of a hill. There is a small store on this corner, and its neatly pointed red bricks and shining plate glass are sharp in contrast to the ancient and somewhat dilapidated structures which surround it. I recall these facts distinctly, and I can see even now every attitude and expression on the part of Carter.

During our brief interview his eyes frequently wandered from mine to those plate-glass windows, as if something within were of vast interest to him.

"You're looking fine, Carter," I said, and he was; "St. Andrews must agree with you."

He smiled placidly and his eye twinkled merrily through that monocle.

"I'm feeling fine! Congratulate me, old fellow!"

The blow had fallen—but I stood it better than I had dreamed would be possible!

A swarm of thoughts came to me in that instant, but I maintained my outward serenity. I knew that he was a clean, honourable man and worthy in every way of the hand and heart of Grace Harding. Possibly they had been long engaged. All of my alleged rights and wrongs faded into thin air. Besides, what was the use of whimpering? It was a stunning blow, but I would stand it like a man.

"I do congratulate you, Carter!" I exclaimed, clasping his hand and looking him frankly in the eyes. "You have won the most glorious woman on earth, and I esteem it an honour that I have had the privilege of meeting her and of enjoying her society! I am—"

"Confound it, man, you never met my wife!" said Carter. "What on earth are you talking of, my dear Smith? Ah, excuse me!"

He pushed past me to meet a radiant creature with laughing blue eyes who came from out that little store. He smiled and took a tiny parcel from her hands. Then he said something to her and they turned to me.

"Stella, my dear," he said, her hand in his as they confronted the most dazed human on the face of the earth, "you have heard me talk so much of my dear friend, 'Foxy Old Smith'; well, here he is! Permit me to present Mr. John Henry Smith, champion of Woodvale, winner of the Harding Trophy, also Wizard of Finance!"

I assured Mrs. Carter that I was delighted to meet her, and if ever a man told the truth I did at that moment. I said a lot of things, laughed so boisterously that Carter looked shocked; I told of the death of my uncle and grinned all the time. I certainly must have made an impression on that lovely bride.

They compelled me to listen while they told of their marriage in London, nearly a week before. She is an English girl, and Carter kept his word that he would be married in London. Since she has never been in America, and since this was my first visit to Great Britain, it was evident I had not met her.

I do not know what Carter thought of my wild outburst. He has not mentioned the subject, and I shall not bring it up.

"Where are the Hardings?" I asked, when I no longer could restrain my impatience.

"They are stopping at the Caledonia," said Carter. "You probably will find the Governor out on the links. He has struck up a great friendship with 'Old Tom' Morris, and doubtless is playing with him right now."

"I think I will go and look him up," I said, as we came to a cross street. "I have an important business matter in which he is interested. I'll see you at dinner."

"The club house is yonder," said Carter, pointing down the hill. With a bow and my uncontrollable grin, I parted from them and armed with a card which Carter had given me, hastened toward the headquarters of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews.

The sedate gentlemen who were lounging about, waiting for the prearranged times when they are privileged to drive from the first tee, must have identified me as the typical American from the manner in which I hastened from one room to another. I explored the locker rooms, the cafes, reception hall, library, billiard room, the verandas, and every nook and corner of the structure.

There is one sacred retreat called the "Room of Silence." Here are displayed the famous relics and historical curios of the game, including clubs used by King James, also strange irons once wielded by champions whose bones have been mouldering for generations. In this awesome place one must enter with sealed lips, and sit and silently ponder over his golf and other crimes. It is sacrilege to utter a word, and not in good form to breathe too rapidly.

An elderly gentleman who looked as if he might be a mine of information was seated in a comfortable chair. He was the sole occupant of the room. I had not asked a question since I had entered the building, and here was my chance.

"Do you happen to know an American gentleman named Harding—Robert L. Harding?" I asked, deferentially.

He did not move an eyelash. I pondered that it was just my luck that the first gentleman I had addressed was deaf and dumb. As I crossed the threshold, I caught an indignant mumble: "Talkative chap, that; he must be an American."

I fled the club house and started down the course. There are three links, but I was certain that Harding would be playing on the "regular" one, and since it is rather narrow I had no difficulty in following it. For the first time I was possessed of no ambition to play. Several indignant golfers shouted "Fore!" but I pursued my way, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left.

When about a mile from the first tee, I saw Harding. His head and shoulders showed above the dreaded trap of "Strath's Bunker," and not far from him was a white-bearded old gentleman with twinkling blue eyes who was smiling at Harding's desperate efforts to loft his ball out of the sand.



"Thot weel not do-o, mon!" I heard him say as I neared the scene of this tragedy. "Take yeer niblick, mon, an' coom richt doon on it!"

Out of a cascade of flying sand I saw his ball lob over the bunker, and with various comments Mr. Harding scrambled out of this pit, brushed the sand off his clothes, and then turned and saw me.

"Of all the damned places to get in trouble, Smith, this takes the cake!" he exclaimed, mopping the perspiration from his face. "Do you know," he added, looking about for his ball, "that it took me five strokes to get out of that cursed sand pit!"

He looked in his bag for another club, played his shot, and made a fairly good one, and then appeared to recall for the first time that he had not recently seen me.

"Hello, Smith; when did you strike town?" he said, a welcoming smile on his face as he offered his hand.

"About an hour ago," I said.

"Well, well! I'm glad to see you! Why didn't you wire you were coming? We'd have come for you in our new machine. Bought a new one since we came over here and have been travelling around in it. It's more comfortable than these confounded English trains. They're the limit, aren't they? Well, how are you? Seems to me you look a bit peaked?"

"I'm all right," I insisted. "How is—how is Mrs. Harding?"

"Never better in her life!"

"And how is—how is Miss Harding?"

We were on the edge of the green, and Harding had played his ball so that we passed near the old gentleman who was Harding's opponent.

"Smith," said that gentleman, "I want you to know Old Tom Morris! Of course, you have heard of him—every golfer has—and all that I ask is that I may be able to play as good a game and be as good a fellow when I am eighty-five years old. Mr. Morris, this is my young friend, John Henry Smith, of America."

I greeted this famous character with some commonplace remarks, and remained silent while they putted out. I made no further attempt in the conversational line until they had driven the next tee.

"How is your daughter, Mr. Harding?" I asked.

"Grace? The Kid?" he hesitated. "She's pretty well, but this climate don't seem exactly to agree with her. We must get her started on golf again. She hasn't played a game since she has been here."

My heart gave a bound when he said that little word "we." Surely he knew nothing of the trouble which had come between us. If she were married, he surely would have said something about it, and up to that minute I had a lingering fear that I might have lost her to some suitor other than Carter.

"And she has never played the course?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Not once," he declared. "As a matter of fact, Smith, women are not very popular around here. They herd them off on a third course which is set aside for them. I looked it over, and it's a scrubby sort of a place."

"That's an outrage!" I declared.

"Oh, I don't know," he returned. "They can hack around over there and do no great damage. Between you and me, Smith, I think women are more or less of a nuisance on a course frequented by good players."

I recalled that I once held the same opinion, and in looking back to the opening pages of this diary I find that I expressed it even more brutally than did Mr. Harding. But I was in no mood to argue the matter with him.

"I presume Mrs. and Miss Harding are at the hotel?" I carelessly remarked. "I should like to pay my respects to them."

"They're about the hotel, I reckon," he said, taking his stance for a brassie shot. He made a very good one.

"How's that, Smith?" he exclaimed. "My boy, I'm getting this game down fine! Old Tom has put me onto some new wrinkles. See that old cock line out that ball! Isn't he a wonder?"

"I think I will go and call on them," I said.

"Call on who? Oh, yes!" he said, as I started away.

"By the way, you won't find Grace there, come to think of it. Let's see; where did she say she was going? She's painting the ruins, and has finished the old cathedral and the monastery. What's that other famous wreck around here? Oh, yes; the castle! I remember now that she said she was going to paint the castle to-day. Somebody ought to paint it. I understand it hasn't been painted for more than eight hundred years."

His roar of laughter sounded like old Woodvale days.

"What's your hurry?" he asked. "Tell you what let's do! I'll fit you out with a set of clubs and we'll play a few holes on the second course. Then we'll go to the hotel, talk over the news with the women folks, and this afternoon we'll drag Carter away from his bride, and you and he can play Tom Morris and me a foursome! How does that strike you?"

"I cannot play this forenoon," I promptly said. "I must attend to my luggage, shave, write some letters, send telegrams and—and do a lot of things."

"How about this afternoon?" he asked. "We start at three o'clock."

"I'll be on hand," I promised, desperately.

"All right, and don't fail," he cautioned me. "You would not believe it, Smith, but I have got so that I can line 'em out from one hundred and—"

I turned and left him with those unknown yards poised on his lips. When at a safe distance I looked back and saw him gazing at me with an attitude and expression of dumb wonder.

I retained the services of a red-headed and freckled-faced boy who was confident he could direct me to the ruins of the old castle. It was not a long walk, and when he pointed them out in the distance I gladdened his heart and brought a grin to his tanned face by giving him a half-crown as I dismissed him.

I was within sight of my fate! My steps faltered as I neared the grim arches, and once I stopped and tried to plan how I should act and what I should say. But I could think of nothing, and mustering all my courage and invoking the god of luck, I went on.

In a few minutes I stood within the shadow of the gray and crumbling walls, undecided which way to turn. Picking my way over fallen masonry, I turned the corner of a huge pile which seemed as if it might crash to earth at any moment.

And then I saw her!

She was seated at an easel, a small canvas in front of her. Her hat was lying on a rock near by, and the breeze had toyingiy disarranged the dark tresses of her hair.

She was looking out over the ocean, a brush idly poised in her hand. I saw the profile of her sweet face as I stood motionless for an instant, not five yards away.

"Grace!" I softly said.

That easel with its unfinished canvas was tipped to the rocks as with a startled cry she sprang to her feet. For one agonising moment I gazed into her startled eyes and saw her quivering lips.



"Jack!" she cried, and we were in each other's arms.

I cannot write what we did or said during the first sweet minutes which followed, for I do not know. I only know that we told each other the most rapturous news which comes to mortal ears. Oh, the wonder of it!

We lived and we loved! This great earth with its blue-domed sky, its fields, its flowers and its heaving seas became ours to enjoy "till death us do part!"

There we sat amid the ruins where kings and queens had been born; where they had lived, loved and died centuries agone. Their ashes mingled with the dust from which they sprang; of their pomp and splendour naught remained save the walls which crumbled over our heads; since their time the world had been born anew, but the god of Love who came to them now smiled on us, his heart as youthful, his figure as beautiful and his ardour as strong as when he whispered sweet words into the ears of the lovers who dwelt in Eden.

I had forgotten that we ever had quarrelled. As we sat there looking out on the sea it seemed as if we had always known of each other's love.

"Sweetheart," I asked, "when did you first know that I loved you?"

"When I became angry at you," she replied.

"When you became angry at me?" I repeated, and then the thought of the anguish through which I had passed recalled itself.

"Darling!" I exclaimed, "why did you treat me so? What had I done? Sweetheart, you do not know how I have suffered!"

"But you must have known all the time that I loved you," she said, a strange smile on her lips.

"How could I know?" I faltered.

"Could you not tell?" she asked, lifting her dancing eyes to mine. "Who was the inspired author of lines which run like this: 'I have received that glorious message! Grace Harding loves me! The message was transmitted from the depths of her beautiful eyes! It has been confirmed by the gentle pressure of her hand as it rested on my arm! It has been echoed in the accents of her sweet voice! I have read it in the blush which mantles her cheek as I draw near, and I know it from a thousand little tokens which my heart understands and which my feeble words cannot express. I am—'"

'"I am an ass,' is the amended and proper ending of that sentence," I humbly said. "I beg of you, tell me how you ever came to see those words from my miserable diary!"

"It makes me mad even now when I think of it!" she declared, vainly attempting to release her hand. "You great big stupid; do you not know what you did?"

"I only know that I wrote those vain-glorious lines and that you must have read them," I said.

"I did not read them! Oh, I could box your ears! While you were composing that rhapsody Mr. Chilvers and others came along and asked you to play golf with them. Golf being more important than anything else on earth, you rushed up stairs for your clubs and left that diary on the table. Do you remember that on your way to the first-tee you met Miss Ross, Miss Dangerfield and me?"

I remember it.

"When we arrived on the veranda," she continued with rising indignation, "Miss Dangerfield picked up that literary treasure of yours and of course opened it to the page from which I have been quoting. And then she read it to us! I never was so mortified and angry in my life. I rushed away from them, and when you found me I was so angry that I could have killed you. It was not a declaration of your love for me; it was a declaration of my love for you!"

I could not help laughing, and then she did box my ears.

"That little minx of a Miss Dangerfield busied herself until your return from your golf game in copying from your diary its choicest extracts," continued Grace, after we had "made up," "but I managed to get them away from her, and I have them yet. Some of them were—well, they were nicer than the one Miss Dangerfield read."

"Which one, for instance?"

"I won't flatter your vanity by repeating them. But when I received your letter and had thought it over several days I decided to forgive you, Jack, and so I wrote you that letter."

"But I never received a letter from you!" I exclaimed.

On comparing dates we found that I had left Albuquerque before the letter could arrive there, and that it probably had not been forwarded to Woodvale in time so that I would get it prior to my sailing.

"It was a cold and formal letter," she said, trying to look severe.

"I don't care anything about the old letter, sweetheart," I declared, "now that I have found you."

And then we laughed and cried and were very happy. It seems that Miss Dangerfield gave the diary to the steward, who must have sent it to my rooms, for I have no recollection of missing it at any time.

We talked of many, many things as we sat there within the shadows of the old castle.

"Oh, Jack!" she suddenly exclaimed, "we must secure an invitation for you to the wedding."

"Ours, dearest?" I innocently asked. "Do I need an invitation?"

"You are so stupid I'm afraid you will—if it ever takes place," she added, looking down. "Be good, Jack, and don't tease me. I meant to Lord Marwick's wedding."

"Lord Marwick? Who is Lord Marwick?"

"Lord Wallace Marwick, of Perth!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight at being the custodian of some great secret.

"My knowledge of the peerage is so slight, dearest, that I confess I have never heard of, much less met, Lord Wallace Marwick of Perth," I declared, smiling in sympathy with her enthusiasm.

"Oh, yes you have! You know him very well!"

"I?"

"Yes, you; you dear old stupid!"

"Who on earth is Lord Wallace Marwick, or whatever his name is?"

"Bishop's hired man!"

"Wallace?"

"Wallace, our club professional!"

"And his bride is—?"

"Can you not guess?" she exclaimed.

"Miss Olive Lawrence," I hazarded.

"Really, Jack, you are improving. Two weeks from this noon Bishop's hired man, Lord Wallace Marwick, will be united in marriage with Olive Lawrence!"

If she had told me that her father had bought the English throne and was about to be crowned I should not have been more surprised.

"What was he doing at Bishop's?" I gasped.

"He was studying farming," she explained. "It seems that his father invested heavily in farming lands in the abandoned districts of New England. Upon his death Wallace determined to acquire a practical knowledge of the methods of American farming, and this was the way in which he went about it. He had already worked on two farms before he applied to Mr. Bishop. He was about to return to Scotland when he met Miss Lawrence. The reasons for his subsequent course you certainly must understand."

"How soon did Miss Lawrence learn that he was—that he was what he is?"

"Shortly after he became our professional." she replied. "That disclosure, and certain other disclosures constituted one of her 'lessons.' Olive confided the secret to me, and this is the principal reason we are here."

"Sweetheart," I said, after an interval of silence, "would it not be splendid to have our wedding at the same time? I have always been—been partial to double weddings."

"I do not know," she whispered, looking intently at the tip of her dainty shoe. "Perhaps—perhaps—I don't know what papa and mamma would think about it."

I heard the crunching of gravel.

"Don't you folks ever eat?" demanded a familiar voice, and Mr. Harding bore down upon us. We said nothing.

"Do you know what time it is?" he added, with an impatience which puzzled me.

"I have not the slightest idea," I truthfully replied.

"Well, it's nearly two o'clock," he declared, looking at his watch. "I've been looking everywhere for you, Smith, and then I began to be worried about you," turning to his daughter. "Why, Kid, you've had time to paint this old stone shack two coats."

"I imagine I'm to blame," I interposed.

"Have you forgotten, Smith, that you have an engagement to play a foursome with old Tom Morris, Carter and myself this afternoon?" he said, looking at us rather suspiciously, I thought.

"I have another engagement," I returned, mustering all my courage.

"What's that?"

"I have an engagement with Grace for life, and we wish to know if you will give your consent to our marriage two weeks from to-day!"

He gazed at us for a moment, a grave look on his rugged and honest face. He dropped his cane, took our hands in his and said:

"Children, you didn't fool your old dad for one minute! Take her, my boy, and God bless both of you! Your mother knows it, Grace, and she sends her blessing."

We almost overcame him with our expressions of gratitude. As we started back to the hotel he glanced at us and chuckled.

"I suppose you two have not quit eating?" he suggested.

We promptly admitted we were hungry.

"And I presume you will play golf once in a while?"

We assured him that we certainly should.

"Well, suppose we go to the hotel, get a bite to eat and then go out and play that foursome with old Tom Morris and Carter," he pleaded. "There is one green out there which is called 'The Garden of Eden,' and I want to show it to you. You, Grace, and mother and Mrs. Carter can go along and be the gallery. I'll promise not to say a word or give a hint about what has happened."

Oh, that happy, happy afternoon on the turf, sand dunes, braes and greens of Old St. Andrews! The sea gulls circled over our heads, the foam-flecked surf crooned its song of love, the River Eden wound about our pathway, and the blue sky smiled down upon us.

"Sweetheart," I said, "there is one confession you have not made to me."

"What is it, Jack?"

"Why did you play so wretchedly that first game in Woodvale?"

Old Tom Morris looked back and smiled in sympathy with her joyous laugh.

"They told me that you were a confirmed woman hater, and that nothing so exasperated you as to be compelled to play with a girl who was a novice. I wished to see if it were true. You are not a woman hater; are you, Jacques Henri?"

"No longer!" I declared.

"And you take back all the mean things you wrote about us in your diary?"

"Every word of it, Sweetheart!"

"Oh, Jack; I thought I should die of laughter when I drove those eight new balls in the pond. And when you never said a cross word, and smiled and tried to encourage me, then I suspected that you loved me."

"I wouldn't have cared if you had driven me into the pond," I said, and then I missed my fourth brassie.

Two weeks from that day there was a double wedding in the fine old drawing room of Marwick Mansion. From the wedding feast which followed cablegrams went to our friends in Woodvale, also one to Mr. James Bishop, farmer near Woodvale, informing him that sometime next season all of us, including the "hired man," would be with him for dinner and another dance in the new red barn.

We have been cruising in the Mediterranean, and now are anchored in the beautiful Bay of Naples. Mr. Harding has been pacing the deck and gazing at the smoke-wreathed crest of Vesuvius.



"Jack," he has just remarked, "that is quite a bunker, but with a little more practice I believe I can carry it."

THE END