Course, this Vice Commodore stunt was sort of sprung on me; for I'd been such an active member I didn't even know the bloomin' clubhouse was finished until here the other day I gets this bulletin from the annual meetin', along with the programme for the openin' exercises.

"Gee!" says I. "Vice Commodore! Say, there must be some mistake about this."

"Not at all," says Sadie.

"Sure there is," says I. "Why, I hardly know one end of a boat from the other; and besides I ain't got any clubby habits. They've been let in wrong, that's all. I'll resign."

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" says Sadie. "When I took all that trouble to have you win over that ridiculous Bronson-Smith!"

"Eh?" says I. "Been playin' the Mrs. Taft, have you? In that case, I expect I'll have to stay with it. But, honest, you can look for a season of perfectly punk Vice Commodorin'."

As it turns out, though, there ain't one in ten members that knows much more about yachtin' than I do. Navigatin' porch rockers, orderin' all hands up for fancy drinks, and conductin' bridge whist regattas was their chief sea-goin' accomplishments; and when it come to makin' myself useful, who was it, I'd like to know, that chucked the boozy steward off the float when he had two of the house committee treed up the signal mast?

I suspect that's how it is I'm played up so prominent for this house warmin' episode. Anyway, when I arrives there on the great night--me all got up fancy in a double breasted serge coat, white flannel pants, and cork soled canvas shoes--I finds they've put me on the reception committee; and that, besides welcomin' invited guests, I'm expected to keep one eye peeled for outsiders, to see that nobody starts nothin'.

So I'm on deck, as you might say, and more or less conspicuous, when this Larchmont delegation is landed and comes stringin' up. It was "Ahoy there, Captain This!" and "How are you, Captain That?" from the rest of the committee, who was some acquainted; and me buttin' around earnest tryin' to find someone to shake hands with, when I runs across this thick set party in the open front Tuxedo regalia, with his opera hat down over one eye and a long cigar raked up coquettish from the sou'west corner of his face.

Know him? I guess! It's Peter K. Tracey; yes, the one that has his name on so many four-sheet posters. Noticed how he always has 'em read, ain't you? "Mr. Peter K. Tracey presents Booth Keene, the sterling young actor." Never forgets that "Mr."; but, say, I knew him when he signed it just "P. Tracey," and chewed his tongue some at gettin' that down.

Them was the days when he'd have jumped at the chance of managin' my ring exhibits, and he was known in sportin' circles as Chunk Tracey. I ain't followed all his moves since then; but I know he got to handlin' the big heavyweights on exhibition tours, broke into the theatrical game with an animal show that was a winner, and has stuck to the boxoffice end ever since.

Why shouldn't he, with a half ownership in a mascot Rube drama that never has less than six road companies playin' it, and at least one hit on Broadway every season? I admit I was some surprised, though, to hear of him buyin' a house on Fifth-ave. and makin' a stab at mixin' in society.

That last I could hardly believe; but here he was, and lookin' as much jarred at findin' me as I was to see him.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" says I. "Chunk Tracey!"

"Why, hello, Shorty!" says he, and neither one of us remembers the "Charmed to see yuh, old chappy" lines we should have been shootin' off.

Seems he'd been towed along with a bunch of near-swells that didn't dare treat him as if he really belonged, and he was almost frothin' at the mouth.

"Talk about your society folks!" says he. "Why,--blankety blank 'em!--I can go down the Rialto any afternoon, pick up a dozen people at twenty-five a week, drill 'em four days, and give a better imitation than this crowd ever thought of putting up!"

"Yes; but look who you are, Chunk," says I.

"I know," says he.

And he meant it too. He always was about the cockiest little rooster in the business; but I'd rather expected eight or ten years of ups and downs in the theatrical game, bein' thrown out of the trust and crawlin' back on his knees would have tempered him down some.

You couldn't notice it, though. In fact, this chesty, cocksure attitude seemed to have grown on him, and it was plain that most of his soreness just now come from findin' himself in with a lot of folks that didn't take any special pains to admit what a great man he was. So, as him and me was sort of left to flock by ourselves, I undertook the job of supplyin' a few soothin' remarks, just for old time's sake. And that's how it was he got rung in on this little mix-up with Cap'n Spiller.

You see, the way the committee had mapped it out, part of the doin's was a grand illumination of the fleet. Anyway, they had all the craft they could muster anchored in a semicircle off the end of the float and trimmed up with Japanese lanterns. Well, just about time for lightin' up, into the middle of the fleet comes driftin' a punk lookin' old sloop with dirty, patched sails, some shirts and things hangin' from the riggin', and a length of stovepipe stickin' through the cabin roof. When the skipper has struck the exact center, he throws over his mud hook and lets his sail run.

Not bein' posted on the details, I didn't know but that was part of the show, until the chairman of my committee comes rushin' up to me all excited, and points it out.

"Oh, I say, McCabe!" says he. "Do you see that?"

"If I didn't," says I, "I could almost smell it from here. Some new member, is it?"

"Member!" he gasps. "Why, it's some dashed old fisherman! We--we cawn't have him stay there, you know."

"Well," says I, "he seems to be gettin' plenty of advice on that point."

And he was; for they was shoutin' things at him through a dozen megaphones.

"But you know, McCabe," goes on the chairman, "you ought to go out and send him away. That's one of your duties."

"Eh?" says I. "How long since I've been official marine bouncer for this organization? G'wan! Go tell him yourself!"

We had quite an argument over it too, with Peter K. chimin' in on my side; but, while the chappy insists that it's my job to fire the old hooker off the anchorage, I draws the line at interferin' with anything beyond the shore. Course, it might spoil the effect; but the way it struck me was that we didn't own any more of Long Island Sound than anyone else, and I says so flat.

That must have been how the boss of the old sloop felt about it too; for he don't pay any attention to the howls or threats. He just makes things snug and then goes below and starts pokin' about in his dinky little cabin. Judgin' by the motions, he was gettin' a late supper.

Anyway, they couldn't budge him, even though half the club was stewin'

about it. And, someway, that seemed to tickle Chunk and me a lot. We watched him spread his grub out on the cabin table, roll up his sleeves, and square away like he had a good appetite, just as if he'd been all by himself, instead of right here in the midst of so many flossy yachtsmen.

He even had music to eat by; for part of the programme was the turnin'

loose of one of these high priced cabinet disk machines, that was on the Commodore's big schooner, and feedin' it with Caruso and Melba records.

There was so much chatterin' goin' on around us on the verandas, and so many corks poppin' and glasses clinkin', that the skipper must have got more benefit from the concert than anyone else. At last he wipes his mouth on his sleeve careful, fills his pipe, and crawls out on deck to enjoy the view.

It was well worth lookin' at too; for, although there was most too many clouds for the moon to do much execution, here was all the yachts lighted up, and the clubhouse blazin' and gay, and the water lappin' gentle in between. He gazes out at it placid for a minute or so, and then we see him dive down into the cabin. He comes back with something or other that we couldn't make out, and the next thing I knows I finds myself keepin'

time with my foot to one of them lively, swingin' old tunes which might have been "The Campbells Are Coming" or might not; but anyway it was enough to give you that tingly sensation in your toes. And it was proceedin' from the after deck of that old hulk.

"Well, well!" says I. "Bagpipes!"

"Bagpipes be blowed!" says Chunk. "That's an accordion he's playing.

Listen!"

Say, I was listenin', and with both ears. Also other folks was beginnin'

to do the same. Inside of five minutes, too, all the chatter has died down, and as I glanced around at the tables I could see that whole crowd of fancy dressed folks noddin' and beatin' time with their fans and cigars and fizz glasses. Even the waiters was standin' still, or tiptoin'

so's to take it in.

Ever hear one of them out-of-date music bellows handled by a natural born artist? Say, I've always been partial to accordions myself, though I never had the courage to own up to it in public; but this was the first time I'd ever heard one pumped in that classy fashion.

Music! Why, as he switches off onto "The Old Folks at Home," you'd thought there was a church organ and a full orchestra out there! Maybe comin' across the water had something to do with it; but hanged if it wa'n't great! And of all the fine old tunes he gave us--"Nellie Gray,"

"Comin' Through the Rye," "Annie Laurie," and half a dozen more.

"Chunk," says I, as the concert ends and the folks begin to applaud, "there's only one thing to be done in a case like this. Lemme take that lid of yours."

"Certainly," says he, and drops a fiver into it before he passes it over.

That wa'n't the only green money I collects, either, and by the time I've made the entire round I must have gathered up more'n a quart of spendin'

currency.

"Hold on there, Shorty," says Chunk, as I starts out to deliver the collection. "I'd like to go with you."

"Come along, then," says I. "I guess some of these sailormen will row us out."

What we had framed up was one of these husky, rugged, old hearts of oak, who would choke up some on receivin' the tribute and give us his blessin'

in a sort of "Shore Acres" curtain speech. Part of that description he lives up to. He's some old, all right; but he ain't handsome or rugged.

He's a lean, dyspeptic lookin' old party, with a wrinkled face colored up like a pair of yellow shoes at the end of a hard season. His hair is long and matted, and he ain't overly clean in any detail. He don't receive us real hearty, either.

"Hey, keep your hands off that rail!" he sings out, reachin' for a boathook as we come alongside.