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 of Rountree. But Lyman did not know this. Jay wondered if Lyman remembered even that he was a buyer and Jay a seller. Lyman gave no sign of it, whatever.

Nobody needed the cap hung over the barometer, so nobody picked it up; but the radio set in the little cabin brought in, at six, the weather warning. No harm in hearing it and now you might as well see what the glass said. It agreed with the forecaster completely.

Lyman lit the kerosene stove and Jay beat up batter for flapjacks.

"Mix a lot, Jay," urged Lyman. "This is probably the last time anything will stick to the top of the stove. We'll feed both watches while our appetites are with us. I'll be bus boy." And while Jay cooked, Lyman served the watch on deck.

There was a midnight moon, and land was lost. Under the moon, the fleet—schooners, yawls and sloops—was spread over the lake ahead, astern and on both beams. Tiny jewels of light, emerald and ruby, marked the hulls. The moon showed the sails, and a sloop—the Saracen, probably, she was too far off for a hail—lay even with the Arletta but far to the lee. A disadvantage, perhaps; but also perhaps not, for if the wind swung around with a change in the weather, the positions with respect to the wind would be reversed and they would have the windward position.

Calm had come with the moon—a too sudden, ominous