Jack Stanley, Scout Master of the Beaver Patrol of Chicago, Boy Scouts of America, was Captain of the Fortuna.  His father was president of a bank in Chicago and had requested Jack and his chums to take the Fortuna from Chicago to Southern waters where they would later on be joined by the banker for a cruise among the islands and points of interest in that vicinity.  Jack was a fine, manly lad who well deserved the honors bestowed upon him.  His companions were equally clean and worthy young boys who were members of the Beaver Patrol and who all were devoted to Jack.

Harry Harvey, an orphan, worked as messenger for one of the large telegraph companies.  He had seen a great deal of life and was far older than his years.  Tom Blackwood worked as an inspector in one of the great department stores of State Street while Arnold Poysor was an apprentice in a printing establishment and was possessed of an ambition to become a great journalist.

Without doubt it would have been difficult to find four more congenial lads than the crew of the Fortuna.  Widely different in their appearance they still gave one the impression that they all belonged to each other.  There was the same fearless, honest look in their sparkling eyes, the same erectness of carriage, the same confident walk that bespoke clean, ambitious, well-trained lives.

Just now they were all anxiously gathered in the pilot house eagerly on the lookout for any possible danger that might be threatening them from out the dense fog being swept inland by the wind.  Harry was at the wheel while Jack stood with his hand close to the switchboard that governed the engines pulsating below.  Tom and Arnold were leaning half way out of the open windows heedless of the fog and the spray that now and again fell in sheets over the pilot house as the Fortuna thrust her nose into a large wave.

“Great fishes!” ejaculated Tom.  “I’d like to have a collision with some eats right soon.  I’m nearly starved and drowned and several other things!  I haven’t eaten since we left Mobile!”

“Score one for Tom!” cried Harry.  “He washes the dishes next time!  Remember our bargain, old Scout,” he continued.  “Do you remember what we agreed to do when we left Chicago?”

“Could I forget it with your melodious Klaxon working overtime?” queried Tom.  “Great Fishes isn’t slang, though!  Ask Jack.”

“How about it, Jack?” asked Harry.  “Does he wash or not wash, that’s the question.  Fair play here—­let the umpire decide!”

Before he spoke, Jack pressed the button that actuated the Klaxon.  When the raucous noise of the fog horn had died away he turned to the two disputants with a quizzical look and said: 

“You’d be more careful of your language if your mother were here, wouldn’t you, Tom?” and then, as a look of triumph on the face of exultant Harry was about to be followed by a shout of rejoicing, he continued.  “And I’m sure that when Harry makes a mistake we’ll all be as considerate of his feelings as we are able.  But Tom washes the dishes as a penalty for using slang!” he announced in a tone of pleasant finality that was unmistakable.