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 for an ugly wind which twisted the ropes out of his hands as he was trying to make things fast.

"Good-morning, Mr. Kimball," Uncle Bobby would shout at the top of his voice; "the mosquitoes seem to be plaguing you!"

"Mr. Kimball," otherwise known as "Pickerel Pete," would look up with a wintry grin, and shout back, "At it again, Uncle Bobby!" Upon which Uncle Bobby would wade out through the foaming shallows and lend a hand.

"Well-mannered little craft that," he would say, giving a neat twist to a rebellious rope. "I've got a friend who would give his best hat to take her out some morning."

"Prettiest cat-boat on the shore," would be the next observation, as the two, having subjugated the rigging, tramped heavily in their wet boots across the sand. "I say, Mr. Kimball, you're a good judge of the weather. Think this kind of thing's going to last?"

"Last? Bless you, no! It's only a fair-weather breeze. We shall have a mill-pond outside by to-morrow morning. What caper have you got on hand for to-morrow?"

"Oh, nothing but a little picnic, if we can get hold of the boats. Don't s'pose, now, you'd spare yours, Mr. Kimball?"

"Yes you do, Uncle Bobby. You s'pose I'd be jest fool enough to let your fine, stuck-up city friends have her. You're countin' on 't sure's a gun."