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There were other purchases, too; cot-beds that folded into almost nothing when not in use, blankets, sheets, mattresses, and pillows, dishes and a few extra cooking utensils, new records for Mr. Cole’s talking machine, two brightly-hued and inexpensive Japanese rugs for the upper deck and numerous lesser things. The provisions were left to the last. They kept up an incessant and animated correspondence with Chub who hated to have anything done without getting a finger in it, and altogether that was a busy week. At the end of it, strange to say, the Jolly Roger actually appeared in her berth in the river, and the next afternoon ssss1.

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When I say that Chub arrived “bag and baggage,” I mean every word of it.

It was a delightful afternoon—July was almost a week old—and Roy, pausing before his front door and fumbling for his latch-key, looked westward along the street into a golden haze of sunlight. And as he looked, suddenly there appeared, huge and formless in the sunset glow, something that arrested his attention. For a moment he couldn’t make it out, but presently, with a rattle of wheels, it drew near and resolved into a “four-wheeler” piled high with luggage. It pulled up at the curb before the door, and Chub leaped out, bringing with him numerous packages.