back.
“I’m-all-right,” Bess said weakly. “Our
boat-” She tried to point.
For the first time the others realized that water
was filling the craft at an alarming rate through
a small hole in its side.
“Quick, George! Bail!” Nancy cried.
George picked up the bucket she had been us-
ing before and started to work. Nancy crumpled
up a newspaper lying on the bottom of the boat
and stuffed the hole with it. In a tackle box she
found a small burlap sack, which she rolled up
and added to the paper. In a moment the inflow
of rushing water was reduced to a trickle.
“Good!” George panted and sat down. “Now
we can chase that other boat!”
It was not in sight, however, and Nancy de-
cided it would be useless to try pursuing the faster
craft. She turned her attention to Bess.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“All right. But I’d like to go home.”
“We will,” said Nancy. “I’m afraid this boat
can’t stand much more.”
“I wish we hadn’t lost the fellow who ruined
it,” said George. “If I ever see him-”
“Would you recognize him?” Nancy asked.
George said she would not, and Bess had not
gotten a good look at him either.
“I saw him,” Nancy said slowly. “I’m sure I’d
rcognize his face. And he was thin and wore a
light-blue cap.”
The girls dreaded returning to Campbell’s
Landing with their damaged craft. But when the
owner saw the damaged craft, he was not angry.
“It won’t cost more than twenty-five dollars
to repair it,” he assured them. “My boat rental
insurance will take care of it.”
After saying good-by. Nancy drove her friends
home. As Bess got out of the car, she said, “I’m
sorry our trip to Heath Castle was ruined.”
Nancy smiled. “We’ll go another time.”
The following day’s investigation unearthed no
clue to the identity of the boatman. Though
Nancy described him and his blue-and-white craft
to several persons, not one of them was able to
identify it. Finally she thought of Salty the clam
digger.
“I’ll drive down to his place on the river and
talk with him,” she told Hannah Gruen. “He
might also know something about the Heath
estate.”
Nancy invited Bess to go along and proceeded
toward the river. Sally’s home was very quaint.
Once it had been a small, attractive yacht. Now
it was a beached wreck, weathered by sun and
rain. Its only claim to any former glory was the
Hag which flew proudly from the afterdeck.
“Anyone here?” Nancy called.
“Come in, come in!” the former sailor invited.
He was sitting with his feet up on a built-in table
and eating beans out of a can.
When he saw the girls, he stood up. “Ye honor
me, comin’ here,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling.
“But I’m goin’ to have to disappoint ye. I’ve nary
a clam today.”
“Oh. we didn’t come to buy clams,” Nancy re-
plied, glancing curiously at the furnishings of the
yacht. The room was small and cluttered, but
very clean. Salty’s bunk was neatly made. On a
shelf above it was an amazing array of sea shells.
“I collect ’em,” the sailor explained, following
Nancy’s gaze. “Some o’ those shells came from the
Orient, an’ some from right here in the Mus-
koka.”
He walked over to the shelf and pointed to a
curious specimen. “That’s called the washboard
clam. It’s one o’ the biggest of our river clams.
And this is a whelk from the seashore. You can
get dye out of it when the critter’s fresh.”
“How interesting!” the girls exclaimed.
Pleased by their attention, the man showed
them other shells which were too large to stand
on the narrow shelf. One, measuring three feet
across, had come from an island in the Pacific.
Nancy grinned. “What a pearl that might
hold!” She told of her own loss, saying she was
glad the pearl was not large and valuable.
The former sailor showed the girls other treas-
ures from the sea; huge fluted specimens and
tiny, delicate shells. Amazed at the variety, Nancy
asked Salty if he had collected them during his
travels.
“No.” The clam digger laughed. “Mr. Heath