“We can have a tent.”

“How will you live?”

“We shall carry off enough to eat beforehand.”  Then you see, we can sail as much as we please, and have a first-rate time on the island.  I shall be coxswain of one boat, and you shall of the other if you like.”

“But we shall have to come home some time.”

“In about a week.”

“What would my father do to me then?”

“Nothing, if you manage right.  If he offers to, just tell him you will run away and go to sea.  He won’t do nothing then.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“He won’t kill you, anyhow.  And you will have a week’s fun, such as you never had before in your life.”

“The Zephyrs won’t have anything to do with me after that.”

“They hate you, Charley, and all they want is to get you out of the club.  You are a fool if you don’t leave yourself!”

Charles paused to consider the precious scheme which had thus been revealed to him.  To spend a week on the island, and not only to be his own master for that time, but command one of the boats, pleased him very much.  It was so romantic, and so grateful to his vanity, that he was tempted to comply with the offer.  But then the scheme was full of peril.  He would “lose caste” with the Zephyrs; though, if Tim’s statement was true, he was already sacrificed.  His father would punish him severely; but perhaps Tim’s suggestion would be available, and he knew his mother would be so glad to see him when he returned, that she would save him from the effects of his father’s anger.  His conscience assured him, too, that it would be wrong for him to engage in such a piece of treachery towards his friends; but Tim declared they were not his friends—­that they meant to ruin him.

Thus he reasoned over the matter, and thus he got rid of the objections as fast as they occurred to him.  While he was thinking about it, Tim continued to describe in glowing colors the fun they could have; occasionally relating some adventure of “Mike Martin,” “Dick Turpin,” or other villain, whose lives and exploits were the only literature he ever read.

But Charles could not fall at once.  There were some difficulties which he could not get over.  It was wrong to do as Tim proposed; it was so written on his soul.  The “still small voice” could not be silenced.  As fast as he reconciled one objection, another came up, and something in his bosom kept saying, “You must not do it.”

The more he thought, the more imperative was the command.  “Run away as fast as you can!” said the voice within him.  “You are tempted; flee from the temptation.”

“I guess I won’t join you, Tim,” said he.

“You won’t, eh?” replied Tim, with a sneer.

“I think not; I don’t believe it is right.  But I won’t say anything about it.”

“I rather guess you won’t.  It wouldn’t be safe for you to do so.”

“I won’t, upon my honor, Tim,” replied Charles, rising from his seat, and edging away from his dangerous companion.