Although only mid-February, the sun was far too warm for Bob’s Chicago blizzard clothes. His mother decided to buy him part of his summer outfit at once. It didn’t take long to lay in a new stiff hat for evening wear, a cap for knocking about in, a light rough coat and trousers and a pair of waterproof outing shoes. The water sogged garments were left at a clothing store, to be sent to the boarding house later, and when Bob reappeared on the street, he felt comfortable for the first time in three days.

“Why were you so particular about those shoes?” asked his mother, as they boarded a street car.

“Particular?” repeated Bob. “They’re just the thing for the boat club—if I’m elected.”

“The boat club?” gasped his mother. “You don’t think that I’ll consent to that now—after what happened this morning?”

“Of course,” answered Bob, with a smile. “That’s just why you will. You saw that I could take care of myself.”

But his mother shook her head. “I suppose any boat the club has will be like the little thing we ran down. I can’t let you join—not now. I’ll be thinking all the time about the narrow escape that boy had.”

“I don’t know that they’ll take me,” explained Bob.

“Why not?” asked his mother indignantly.

“Boys don’t give reasons,” answered Bob. “If they don’t like you, they don’t—that’s all.”

Before his mother could interpose further objections, Bob immediately began a long description of the advantages of an outing on the shores of Perdido Bay.

“You know what the doctor told us,” he added. “He said exercise was no good unless it comes in the form of pleasure—something you want to do. I never had a chance to get this sort of fun, with boys. And everything we’ll do is something I’ve wanted to do all my life.”

Then he explained the natural wonders of the bay on which the Anclote Club had its house. Next followed the tales of pirates who had infested the wide silver sheet. There, only in[48] the preceding century, the buccaneers of the gulf had made rendezvous and thereabout lurked the legends of buried gold and lost treasure. Never an ancient oak upon Perdido’s shores but what had, in Bob’s fervid imagination, tangled within its gnarled roots, the possibilities of iron crusted strong boxes.

“I’m not really going to look for old Spanish pieces-of-eight or gold doubloons,” explained Bob, “but I’d like to go where people have looked for them. I can imagine the rest,” he added laughing.

“This is where we get off,” smiled Mrs. Balfour. But Bob had made his point. After luncheon when his mother again revived the subject of the club, Bob tempered her objections to it with an account of Jerry Blossom. But he did not remind her that at three o’clock, he was to meet the boys to hear the verdict as to his eligibility.

When the hour for Mrs. Balfour’s afternoon nap approached, she suggested to Bob that he write a letter to his father. His room adjoined hers. When the dutiful son heard breathing indicating that his mother was asleep, the letter came to a sudden termination. As soon as Bob knew that his mother was asleep, he concluded:
 
“But it is too hot to write more to-day. Please send me another five dollars. Your obedient son, Robert.”

Then, eager to be at Tom Allen’s home on time, he made his way quietly downstairs and was off for Zaragossa Street. When he found it was only a little after two o’clock, he idled along in front of the main shops. Within the window of a book store, he saw a map of the gulf coast. Examining a map wasn’t reading, so he went in, purchased a copy of the chart, and, finding a dusty chair in a half lighted corner of the shop, he fell to studying the bays, sounds, islands and river mouths of the coast round about Pensacola.

The scene of all his present dreams, Perdido Bay, was about as regular as a splash of gravy on a hot plate. To reach it by sea, one had to sail across the corner of Pensacola Bay, around the point of Santa Rosa Island, and then, about ten miles to the twisting mouth of the bay. Bob’s heart throbbed with excitement at the thought of the possibilities in store for him. Then he recalled himself—he remembered Mac Gregory.

At exactly three o’clock, Bob walked briskly up to Tom’s house. There was no black rag[50] on the gate. That was encouraging. By some occult boy’s reasoning, he knew that the club members were in the back yard. He had advanced but a few steps on the shell walk when Tom Allen appeared.

“I didn’t know whethah yo’ all ’d come. Mac’s hyah,” he said in a rather awed voice. Bob noticed this, and some of his last evening’s resentment revived.

“Look here, Tom,” he said, “I like you fellows fine, and I’d like to chum with you anywhere, but I don’t want to butt in. I’m not askin’ any favors of Mac.”

“Oh, Mac’s all right,” said Tom apologetically, “only he’s kind o’ cranky sometimes. But you’ll like him when you know him.”

The much discussed Mac turned out to be a very ordinary boy with no education and little natural refinement. He was older than any of the other boys, but less in stature, although strongly built. In short, Mac was a shiftless boy, the son of a coast steamer captain, who had been left to grow up pretty much as he liked. As this meant mainly a love for boats and sailing and a consequent knowledge of all the adjacent waterways, he was easily the leader of Tom and Hal in cruises afloat.
 
As Bob, with a quick scrutiny of the stocky Mac, stepped forward to greet him with a handshake, the great Gregory nodded his head, and busied himself lighting a cigarette. Bob was surprised and indignant; but he showed neither.

“So yer the kid ’at wants to hook up wid us?” commented Mac.

“I was invited to join the club,” said Bob with a forced smile. “But I was given to understand that it was only if you liked me.”

“’Tain’t a question o’ like ur dislikes,” commented Mac, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Kin ye deliver the goods?”

“That can mean a whole lot,” answered Bob. “There are a good many things that some boys can do that I don’t know anything about.”

“Don’t get fresh,” Mac retorted. “There’s a good many that would give a lot to git in our club. We don’t know nothin’ about you.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” volunteered Bob.

“Talk’s cheap,” exclaimed the critical Mac. “Ever do any shootin’?”

“No.”

“Know how to fish?”

“No.”
 
“Kin you sail a boat?”

“Don’t know one sail from another.”

“Humph!” commented the autocrat of the club. “I don’t see where you belong in no first class fishin’ club.”

“All right,” said Bob with growing indignation, but showing only a smile outwardly. “Since I haven’t been elected, it won’t be necessary for me to resign.”

Mac scowled, but evidently felt somewhat ashamed.

“Say, Kid,” he half sneered, “ye look kind o’ decent, ef ye are kind o’ sissy—”

The next moment, the slouchy Mac had sprung backward, and the white-faced Bob was standing before him with clenched fists.

“I don’t know what you fellows down here mean by ‘sissy,’ but up where I live, a boy couldn’t call me that. Take it back!”

For answer, Mac laughed scornfully. He saw trouble coming and welcomed it. He did not wait for an attack, but darted under Bob’s ready arms and closed about the boy’s waist. The next moment, the two boys were locked in each other’s arms on the hard ground.

Mac was tough in muscle and sound in wind. Bob’s lungs were just then his weak point. In[53] muscular build he had only the strength of the average boy, lessened by his far from robust physical condition. But he forgot these handicaps. The only knowledge he had of wrestling was what he had picked up from observation in the Y. M. C. A. gymnasium.

And this was all he had to use against his enemy. As if attempting to escape, Bob, who was beneath, started to roll over on his right side. Mac’s right hand flew from Bob’s left arm to his left shoulder, and the boy underneath shot his left arm below Mac’s chin, forced it around his opponent’s head and closed down with a blow on the uppermost boy’s neck.

This simple wrestling hold was a thing Mac had never encountered. As his head sank downward and sideways under Bob’s arm lock on his neck, the under boy, with all his strength, threw the upper part of Mac’s body over, and before the astounded leader of the Anclote Club knew what was happening, he was on his back and Bob was astride him.

But the effort was too much. Bob’s face was pale now from something more than anger or excitement. At the sight of a scarlet tinge on his lips, Tom Allen and Hal Burton sprang forward and pulled the combatants apart. Bob[54] swayed weakly on his feet for a moment, then braced himself and wiped away the traces of the little hemorrhage that his effort had cost him. His weakened lungs had failed him, and his mouth was full of blood.

“Come on,” sneered Mac, his face almost livid with rage, “finish what ye started. Ef ye think ye kin do that agin, try it.”

Again Bob’s handkerchief removed a mouthful of blood. He cleared his throat, shoved his handkerchief into his pocket and began to draw off his coat. But just then Tom Allen stepped before his leader.

“Mac,” he said in an alarmed voice, “he can’t fight. Bob’s sick.”

“Sick?” sneered Gregory. “He’s sick where I pasted him, I reckon. Come on,” he snarled, “an’ I’ll give it to ye where ye ain’t lookin’ fur it.”

Bob attempted to push Tom aside but by that time, Hal had also interfered.

“You got to wait till he’s right, Mac—’tain’t fair.”

“That’s all it takes fur some of ’em,” almost shouted Mac. “A little punch an’ a little blood an’ it’s all over. Ain’t that right, sissy?”

Even Tom and Hal could no longer restrain[55] Bob. The angry lad pushed them hastily aside. His face livid and his lips tinged with blood, he dashed between his friends. As he did so, there was a sharp command behind the four boys, and Mrs. Allen, white faced and trembling, sprang between the two boys. Immediately behind her was Bob’s mother.

Abashed and mortified, all four boys hung their heads.

“What does this mean, Tom?” exclaimed Mrs. Allen.

“Mac and Bob quarreled—but it don’t amount to nothin’.”

“Are you hurt, Bob?” inquired Mrs. Balfour excited, noticing the traces of blood on Bob’s face and clothes.

“No,” said Bob trying to smile, “we were just wrestlin’ a little. I guess I bumped my mouth.”

“What was the quarrel about?” exclaimed Mrs. Allen, sternly.

No boy spoke.

“Mac,” continued Mrs. Allen, her eyes glistening, “why were you all fighting?”

Mac, a little defiantly, replied, “Well, it was all in fun. I was a testin’ him out. I jes’ called him a ‘sissy’ fur fun.”
 
Mrs. Allen looked at him with no attempt to conceal her indignation. Mrs. Balfour, her face set, gazed at Mac a full moment, and then added:

“You were testing him? What do you mean?”

“I wanted to see if he was the real goods.”

“Well,” went on Mrs. Balfour, “what is your opinion?”

“I ain’t had no real chanst to find out,” answered Mac, doggedly.

Mrs. Balfour’s lip curled in contempt.

“I’ll tell you an easier way to find out than by fighting. Go to Captain Joe Romano, of the Three Sisters, and ask him who saved you from drowning this morning.”

Three boys looked up astounded.

“Him?” exclaimed Mac—his mouth gaping.

There were a few quick words between Mrs. Balfour and her equally angry hostess.

“Ef it was him,” went on the Gregory boy, “why didn’t he say somethin’? I’m satisfied. He kin come in the club ef he wants to.”

There was a look of increased contempt on the face of both Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Balfour, but before either could speak, Tom—who, of course, was familiar with Mac’s accident but not with[57] his mysterious rescue—sprang to the center of the group.

“All right,” he exclaimed defiantly, “and that makes Bob a member. The club now bein’ in reg’lah session, I make a motion that Mac Gregory be expelled. All in favor of that motion, say ‘Aye’.” Hal Burton and Tom responded with loud ayes. “The ‘ayes’ have it.”

Mrs. Allen, her eyes snapping, pointed toward a gate in the rear of the yard.

“Mac,” she said peremptorily, “please go away from ouah house, and be good enough to stay away.”