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It was getting on toward six o'clock so I thought I'd buy myself a beer and go out and sit in a deck chair by the swimming pool and have a little evening sun.

"What I want you to do," said Mr. George Wright, as he leaned towards the old sailor, "is to be an uncle to me."

THE grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets.

We had our swim before sundown, and while we were cooking our supper the oblique rays of light made a dazzling glare on the white sand about us.

'May ne'er a noble of thy murd'rous line
Survive to reach a greater age than thine!'

At the time of which I write I was nineteen years old, a student at Yale.

Skeleton Lake: An Episode in Camp is a story about murder; men on a moose hunting trip in Canada find a dead man washed ashore at Skeleton Lake.

He sighed, and, striking a match, applied it to his pipe and sat smoking thoughtfully.

When a girl goes away from home for the first time, she doesn't expect to hear, 'Courage, brave girl!'