The captain’s aim had been hurried and the bullet sped singing through the air several feet above the launch, and before he could pull the trigger the second time the captain and mate of the tug had borne him back against the side of the deck house and wrested the revolver from his hand. The Vagabond, with no one at the wheel, charged across the tug’s bow and headed for the west. On the floor of the cockpit Dan was fighting and struggling to regain both his feet and the revolver which he had dropped under the suddenness of the attack, and which now lay beyond his reach.
“Let me up!” he panted.
“In a mu-mu-mu-minute!” gasped Tom, still holding on as though for dear life. Then Bob sprang to the wheel, brought the Vagabond’s head again into the course for Provincetown, and looked back at the tug, already a couple of hundred yards astern. The two captains were still arguing it out near the cabin door, but the mate was on his way to the wheelhouse. A deck hand was trying to recover the boat hook, which had fallen into the water when the Vagabond started up. In a moment he had succeeded, and the tug’s nose swung around and pointed toward Sanstable. A minute later she was on her way home, billowing smoke from her stack and evidently resolved to make up for lost time. Bob called to Tom.
“Let him up, Tommy,” he said.
Nelson, rubbing the oil and grease from his hands with a bunch of waste, appeared at the door.
“Wh-what the dickens!” he cried in amazement as he looked.
“Oh, Tommy and Dan have been having a little football!” answered Bob. Dan climbed to his feet and observed Tom disgustedly.
“You think you’re mighty smart, I suppose!” he growled. “For two cents I’d bump your silly fat head against——”
“Cut it out!” said Bob sharply. “You’ve made a fool of yourself long enough, Dan. You came near getting yourself plugged full of holes, and Tommy did just right. You think yourself a bloody hero, I dare say, but you ought to be kicked. Nice mess you’d made of it if that old terror had put a bullet into you! Next time I go cruising, I’ll bet there’ll be no red-headed lunatics aboard! Hand me my revolver!”
Dan, abashed, picked up the pistol and gave it to its owner.
“You needn’t be so blamed grouchy,” he muttered.
“You’d make anyone grouchy,” answered Bob. “And I want you to understand that you’re to let my things alone after this.” He broke the revolver to extract the cartridges. Then he looked in surprise at Dan.
“Why,” he cried, “it isn’t loaded!”
“I suppose I know it, don’t I?” growled Dan. “I couldn’t find your silly old cartridges!”
CHAPTER XI—RECORDS A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
An hour later the Vagabond was swinging quietly from her anchor cable in the harbor of Provincetown. About her in the darkness the lights of other craft twinkled and the curving waterfront of the old town was dimly illumined. On the Vagabond’s deserted deck only the riding light gleamed, but in the cabin all lamps were doing their best, there was a fine odor of steaming coffee and things fried and the crew and their guest were sitting around the table in the stateroom doing full justice to a dinner all the more enjoyable since so long delayed. Good humor had returned and everybody was in the best of spirits; unless, possibly, we except Spencer Floyd. It was difficult at all times to tell whether he was happy or unhappy. He seldom spoke unless spoken to, and his habitual expression was one of intense gravity. But he certainly had not lost his appetite; once Dan forgot his own hunger for nearly half a minute in marveling at Spencer’s capacity. Of course they talked and, equally of course, the subject of discourse was the day’s happenings.
“I think we got out of the mess mighty luckily,” said Nelson. And the sentiment was indorsed by the others. It had taken fully ten minutes, Bob, Dan and Tom all talking together and at top speed, to acquaint Nelson with what had happened on deck, very little of which he had been able to glimpse from the engine room. “Only,” continued Nelson affectionately, “I think you were a great big galoot, Dan, to stand up there and bluff Captain Chowder with an empty revolver.”
“The bluff worked, though,” laughed Dan. “I couldn’t find Bob’s box of cartridges anywhere, you see, and there wasn’t any time to lose. Maybe if the captain had looked a bit closer he would have seen that the cylinder was empty, but I had to chance that.”
“Huh!” said Tom. “Bet you if I was in the captain’s place I wouldn’t waste any time examining the cylinder!”
“That was a great tackle you made, Tom,” said Dan with a grin. “I hit the deck like a load of bricks. Gosh! I didn’t know what had struck me! Only you forgot, Tommy, that the new rules forbid tackling below the knees.”
“I didn’t tackle you below the knees,” answered Tom promptly.
“Felt like it!”
“I don’t see but what Tommy’s the hero of the day, after all,” observed Bob. “I’m plumb sure I wasn’t! The way I got into the engine room when that old pirate came on deck with his gun must have been one of the sights of the trip!”
“I guess the real hero,” said Dan, “was Nelson. Anyhow, he did the most practical thing and worked hardest.”
“Hero be hanged!” replied Nelson, spreading his fifth slice of bread. “But you can bet I worked hard, all right! I thought I’d never get that old vaporizer together again. One of the parts got away and I couldn’t find it for weeks! And I didn’t know whether the thing would work any better after I got through with it. The first thing we do to-morrow is to empty that tank and fill up with some decent gasoline.”
“I suppose we need it,” said Bob, “but how about staying around here that long? Don’t you think Captain Chowder will telegraph here and get the local Scotland Yard after us?”
“I rather think,” answered Nelson, “that he’s decided by this time to let the thing drop. But, of course, there’s no telling for sure. There’s one thing, though; he doesn’t know for certain where we are. We started out toward Provincetown, but maybe he’ll argue that we were only trying to throw him off the track and that after a bit we turned and headed across to Plymouth or somewhere on the south shore.”
“That’s so,” Bob agreed after a moment’s consideration.
“Even if he did telegraph,” said Dan, “what could the police here do? If we told our story they wouldn’t dare to arrest us.”
“Well, they might take Spencer and hold him until the thing was cleared up,” said Nelson. “And it might end with Spencer going back with the captain. And I’ll be blowed if I’m going to have that!”
“Nor I,” said Bob.
“Same here,” agreed Dan.
Tom had his month too full for utterance, but he shook his head violently and scowled disapprovingly.
“Then what’s to be did?” asked Nelson.
There was a moment’s silence, during which everyone ate busily, broken at last by Spencer.
“Seems to me I’ve been trouble enough to you,” he said diffidently. “If you’ll put me ashore I guess I can make out all right now. And I’m much obliged for what you’ve done for me. And——”
“Pshaw!” interrupted Dan. “You’d be caught and lugged back to that old schooner the very first thing. No, sir, the best place for you is right here aboard the Vagabond. And if Provincetown isn’t a safe place to stay, I vote we move on.”
“To-night?” asked Bob.
“I don’t care. In the morning, if you fellows think it’ll be safe to stay until then. Only we want to get out before Captain Chowder begins to use the wires.”
“I tell you!” exclaimed Nelson. “Just as soon as it’s light we’ll run outside a ways and put Spencer in the tender. Then he can row around and keep out of the way until we get our tank filled again. And then we can pick him up.”
“Dandy!” cried Tom. “And if they come and search us they won’t find him! And we can tell them that he fell overboard and——”
“And was swallowed by a whale,” laughed Bob. “That’s a good scheme, though, Nel. Would you mind if we did that, Spencer?”
“No, sir. I’d be all right if you left me some oars.”
“Of course we’ll leave you oars,” said Nelson. “That’s settled then. But we want to get out pretty early and be back here before the folks along the wharves are taking notice.”
“Well,” said Dan, “we’ll get Tommy to wake us.”
“Hope you choke,” responded Tom dispassionately.
“Haven’t anything to choke on,” answered Dan. “Pass me the bread.”
“I don’t believe the telegraph office will be open until about eight o’clock,” said Bob. “And it isn’t likely that the Scout would get back to Sanstable to-night in time for the captain to telegraph. So I guess we’re safe until, say, nine to-morrow morning. That being the case, and Dan having eaten the last thing on the table, I will adjourn to the deck.”
“There’s some more coffee in the pot,” said Tom.
“Couldn’t drink another drop, Tommy. I’ve had three cups already. Come on, Barry; you and I’ll go up and look at the moon.”
“Isn’t any,” grunted Tom.
“What!” exclaimed Bob. “No moon? How careless of the weather man! Then we’ll look at the nice little lantern at the bow, Barry.”
“Oh, we’ll all go up,” said Dan. “I want a breath of air. How about the dishes, though?”
“Let ’em go,” muttered Tom lazily.
“Couldn’t I do them?” asked Spencer.
“Why—do you mind?” asked Nelson.
“I’d like to,” was the answer.
“All right, then; go ahead. I guess Tommy will let you.”
If there was any objection from Tom it was so slight that no one noticed it.
Up in the cockpit the Four made themselves comfortable in the chairs and on the seat, while Barry curled up into a perfectly round bunch in Dan’s lap. The breeze still held from the southward and the night was quite warm, and, although Bob continued to complain at intervals over the absence of moonlight, the stars glittered in an almost cloudless sky and shed a wan radiance of their own. Somewhere in the darkness along the wharves a concertina was stumbling uncertainly through the latest success in rag-time melody.
“Say, Bob,” said Dan, “you can do worse than that. Get your mandolin.”
So Bob got it and the concertina was soon drowned out. Spencer crept up and silently snuggled himself in a corner of the cockpit. The lights in the town went out one by one and four bells struck in the cabin.
“Hello!” exclaimed Nelson. “This won’t do, fellows, if we’re going to make an early rise. Come on, Dan, and help me fix up the berth for Spencer.”
So the pipe berth in the engine room was pulled out and the other beds were levied on for a pillow and blankets, and half an hour later only Tom’s snores disturbed the silence.
At half-past six the next morning the Vagabond turned her bow toward the harbor entrance, passed the light at the end of Long Point and went westward for a half-mile along the shore. Then the tender was put over and Spencer, his own attire supplemented with an extra sweater of Bob’s, jumped into it.
“If I had some line and a hook,” said Spencer gravely, “I could catch you some fish.”
“That’s so!” said Nelson. “And I think there’s fishing tackle aboard somewhere. Wait a moment and I’ll see if I can’t find it.”
“Yes,” remarked Dan casually, “and you might dig a few worms while you’re down there.”
Nelson’s enthusiasm wilted and he joined in the laugh.
“I forgot about bait,” he said. “I guess you couldn’t catch much without bait, eh, Spencer?”
“You leave me the line,” answered the boy, “and I guess I can find some bait somewheres.”
So Nelson rummaged around and found what was wanted, and when the Vagabond went chugging slowly and softly back toward the lighthouse and the harbor entrance Spencer, oars in hands, was pulling toward the outer beach. Back in the harbor Bob steered the launch up to a landing in the lee of a shed bearing the sign “GASOLINE” and made her fast. Then they set about completing their toilets, while Tom prepared breakfast. By the time that repast was ready the waterfront was wide awake and the sun was shining warmly. After breakfast the tank was emptied and refilled with what was represented to be “the best gasoline on the Cape.” As the boat’s funds were depleted to the extent of almost twenty dollars when payment had been made, there was a unanimous hope among the crew that the claim would not prove too great.
“It’s mighty expensive stuff, isn’t it?” asked Tom. “Think what we could do with twenty dollars!”
“That’s so, Tommy,” said Nelson. “Gasoline doesn’t taste as nice as caramels, but it’s a lot better for fuel.”
“Gee!” muttered Tom wistfully. “Think of twenty dollars’ worth of caramels!”
Later, when they went shopping for provisions, Tom got into a candy store and wouldn’t come out until he had bought a little of everything in sight. They returned to the wharf laden with bundles just as the clock struck ten.
“Now to pick up the tender and run around to Chatham,” said Nelson as they went down the wharf.
But when the float lay below them Bob nudged his arm. On the edge of the float, seated on an empty nail keg and talking to the gasoline man, was a tall individual in a faded blue coat on the left breast of which glittered a badge.
As they went down, the tall man, who looked more like a sailor than a police officer, arose and awaited them. Then,
“You gentlemen own this launch?” he asked with a slow drawl.
“Well, we’re sailing her,” answered Nelson. “She belongs to my father.”
“Pretty nice boat,” said the other, his eyes traveling swiftly from one to another of the quartet. “Which of you is Spencer Floyd, now?”
“None of us,” answered Nelson.
“Well, I got a message for him,” said the officer. “You tell him I want to see him, will you?”
“He isn’t here,” said Nelson.
“I want to know!” drawled the officer. “Ain’t drowned him, have you?”
“No, he isn’t drowned. He just isn’t here.”
“Well, well! Don’t mind my lookin’ about a little, I guess?”
“No, you’re perfectly welcome to, sir. Come aboard, please.”
The officer followed and looked admiringly over the launch while Nelson unlocked the cabin door. Then they all trooped down into the cabin and the officer satisfied himself that the runaway was indeed not there.
“Much obliged, gentlemen,” he said at last. “I see he ain’t here. I guess you don’t care to tell me where he is, do you?”
“No,” Nelson replied smilingly, “I don’t believe we do. And anyhow, we don’t know just where he is—by this time.”
Which was a good deal nearer the truth than Nelson suspected.
“Well,” said the officer, with a twinkle in his eye, “if you chance to see him again you tell him that his friend Captain Sauder, over to Sanstable, is particularly anxious to see him, will you?”
Nelson promised gravely to do so and the officer stepped ashore.
“Good mornin’,” he said. “I hope you’ll have a fair voyage.”
“Good morning,” Nelson replied. “Thank you.”
Halfway across the float the officer paused, turned and retraced his steps, and Nelson went to meet him.
“Now, I don’t know much about this,” said the officer confidentially, “but you fellers don’t look like a very desperate set to me. So you tell this feller Floyd—if you should happen to meet him, you understand—you tell him that the Cape’s a bit unhealthy just at present; kind of malarial, you know; and maybe he’d be better off across the bay. See what I mean?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Nelson. “And I’m much obliged. And if I should happen to see him I’ll tell him that.”
“You needn’t mention me, of course,” said the other. “It ain’t any of my business. So long.”
“That means,” said Bob, when Nelson had told the others, “that means that they’re on the lookout for Spencer all down the Cape. So what the dickens are we to do? We’ve got to put in somewhere; we can’t make Newport to-day.”
“That’s so,” said Nelson. “Let’s see the chart.”
After they had all studied it awhile Dan asked:
“What’s the matter with trying to make Nantucket? It isn’t likely that he’s warned them down there.”
“No, but it’s a jolly long ways,” said Bob. “Let’s see how far. Why, it’s nearly eighty miles! Could we do that before dark, Nel?”
“We could do it by seven o’clock,” was the answer. “But wouldn’t it be better to take Spencer over to Plymouth and send him home by train?”
They discussed the question at length and in the end decided that the latter plan was the more feasible. Then they cast off and ran across the harbor to the Point and so westward in search of the tender. But after they had rounded the lighthouse there was nothing in sight resembling their boat in the least.
“That’s mighty funny!” said Bob. And all the others agreed heartily. They went southward for two miles in chase of a craft that might, so Nelson thought, turn out to be the tender. But when they got within fair sight of it they found it to be a pea-green dory containing two fishermen.
“Let’s go back to where we left him,” suggested Dan. “Perhaps he went ashore and pulled the boat up on the beach.”
So they turned back and ran along the shore, but without success. Then Bob headed the launch westward. All four kept a sharp lookout, but it was Tom who asked presently:
“What’s that over there?”
All turned to look.
“Seems like a water-logged boat,” said Nelson. “Run her over there, Bob.”
Bob obeyed and two minutes later the Vagabond floated alongside the puzzling object, puzzling no longer. It was the tender, filled with water almost to the gunwales and empty of everything except the oars and a few dead fish. The four stared at each other in consternation.
CHAPTER XII—WHEREIN NELSON SOLVES THE MYSTERY
The Vagabond rolled and dipped while the boys silently struggled with the problem confronting them.
Where was Spencer Floyd?
There was the boat, there were the oars, there were the fish which he had promised, and, entangled with one of the oars, was the line he had used. But—where was he? Also, why was the tender full of water?
“It’s the funniest thing I ever ran up against!” breathed Dan, finally breaking the silence. After that questions came fast and furious and no one tried to supply the answers until Tom cried:
“I know! Su-su-su-su-somebody ru-ru-ran him du-du-du——!”
“Pshaw!” said Nelson. “Collisions don’t happen in broad daylight in a place like this where there’s water enough to float a fleet of warships!”
“Bu-bu-bu-but look at the tu-tu-tender!”
“I know,” Nelson muttered, “but I don’t believe——”
“If it was an accident Spencer’s a goner,” said Dan.
“Not necessarily,” said Bob. “If he was run down by a steamer or a schooner they might have stopped and picked him up.”
“If they had wouldn’t they have landed him when the harbor was just around the corner?”
“They might not have,” Bob answered. “They might have been in a hurry and just taken him along.”
“That doesn’t seem likely,” objected Dan.
“No,” added Nelson. “The least they could have done would have been to land him.”
“Then he’s a gu-gu-gu-gu-goner!” said Tom sadly.
“I don’t believe he was run into,” protested Nelson.
“I know you don’t; you said so before,” Dan replied. “But if it wasn’t that, what was it? Where’s he got to and why is the boat full of water?”
“I don’t know, but there are lots of things that might have happened.”
“Such as what, Mr. Solomon?”
“Well, he might have gone ashore for more bait and left the tender on the beach. Then the tide floated it out while he was gone. When he came back and saw that he couldn’t get it he decided to walk to town in hopes of finding us before we left.”
“Well, that might be it,” acknowledged Bob after a moment’s consideration of the theory, “but somehow I can’t make myself think so. If you’re right then he’s waiting for us in the village.”
“And maybe the officer fellow has him,” added Dan.
“Hold on!” protested Tom. “That’s all ru-ru-right, but how did the boat get full of water?”
Nelson looked nonplused.
“It might have gone floating around and hit against something,” he finally ventured, “maybe a rock or a submerged log.”
“Submerged poppycock!” said Dan. “I’ll tell you what really happened.”
“Of course you will,” said Tom. “You know all about it, du-du-du-don’t you?”
“A boat of some kind came along and Spencer saw a chance of getting away in it, maybe to New York. Probably he offered to work his passage and they took him aboard. And somehow the tender got a hole stove in her.”
“How?” demanded Tom.
“Oh, I don’t know; there’s plenty of ways. Maybe Spencer thought if he sank the boat and disappeared altogether Captain Chowder would stop hunting him.”
“The first part of your yarn is all right, Dan,” said Bob, “but the last part is mighty weak. But whatever happened there’s no use in our spending the day out here. The question now is: What’s to be done next? If Spencer’s drowned we can’t do any good here. If he’s run away on another boat, why, we might as well attend to our own affairs. What about it?”
“Best thing to do,” said Nelson, “is to tow the tender back to the wharf and get the water out of it. Then we can see what’s happened to it. Anyhow, it will probably have to be repaired and that means staying here until to-morrow. Pull her in, Dan, and I’ll get hold of the painter.”
“All right,” answered Dan, who was holding the tender with the boat hook. “But won’t she go under completely and sink if we try to tow her?”
“I don’t think so. How about it, Bob?”
“Not in this sea, if we go slow,” answered Bob.
“Anyhow, it isn’t likely that we’d ever get the water out of her here. There’s a little beach at the end of that slip by the wharf where we were, and we can beach her there.”
So, running very slowly, the Vagabond returned to town, the submerged tender rolling and splashing along behind at the end of a short painter and threatening to disappear completely every minute. But she didn’t carry out her threat, and when the launch was once more tied up at the float the tender was pulled along to the end of the slip until she grounded. There they left her until the tide, which was still running out, should leave her high and dry. Bob and Dan went in search of a carpenter to patch her up, following the explicit directions of the gasoline man, who was very much interested in the sudden and unexplained appearance on the scene of the tender. Nelson and Tom made discreet inquiries for Spencer, describing his personal appearance without mentioning his name. But neither the man at the wharf nor the loungers at the street end of it had seen anyone answering to their description. Bob and Dan returned presently with the information that the carpenter was busy but would be on hand in about half an hour. So they went back to the launch, made themselves comfortable in the cockpit and speculated anew on the disappearance of Spencer. Many new and ingenious theories were aired, but in the end it was all nicely summed up in Tom’s verdict:
“It’s a regular jim-dandy mystery,” declared Tom. “That’s what it is!”
At twelve the carpenter had not arrived.
“He won’t come now until after his dinner hour,” said the gasoline man when asked for his opinion.
“Then I vote that we find a hotel or restaurant,” said Dan, “and have a thundering good dinner. If the old duffer comes while we’re gone he can wait till we get back.”
The vote was carried, the cabin was locked again and the quartet set off in search of dinner. It wasn’t hard to find, and at a quarter before one they were back at the wharf. The carpenter, garrulous and apologetic, arrived a few minutes later and the entire party went back up the pier, climbed down a slippery ladder and reached the little beach where lay the tender looking like a novel bathtub. The beach was composed largely of black muck and the resulting operations were disastrous to four pairs of white canvas shoes.
“Catch ahold here,” said the carpenter, “and turn her over.”
Out splashed the water and the dead fish and over went the tender until she lay bottom up. It wasn’t necessary to hunt long for the leaks. Half a dozen small splintered holes on each side of the keel confronted them. The carpenter examined them attentively.
“How’d you do it?” he asked finally.
“We don’t know,” answered Nelson lamely. “We think, though, that she struck a rock or something.”
“Rock, eh?” said the other with a sniff. “Must have been inside the boat then, unless you had her turned inside out. See them splinters? Point outward, don’t they? Whatever made them holes was inside the boat, gentlemen.”
“That’s so,” Nelson acknowledged. “I wonder what did it.”
“If you’re asking me, ’twas a boat hook as did it. And it wa’n’t no accident, neither. Boat hooks don’t up of themselves and go to punchin’ holes in the bottom of a boat like that.” He looked expectantly around as though explanations were in order. But Nelson and the others only looked grave and unenlightened.
“Humph!” said the carpenter, returning to his examination of the injuries. But that “Humph!” said a whole lot.
“Can it be mended?” asked Nelson.
“Course it can be mended,” was the reply, “but I can’t do it here. I’ll have to put in two new planks. I’ll get my dory and tow her around to the shop.”
“How long will it take?” asked Bob.
“Oh, I cal’ate you can have her to-morrow some time.”
“That won’t do. We’ve got to start away first thing in the morning. Can’t you work on it this afternoon?”
The carpenter pushed back his old felt hat and rubbed his bald head reflectively.
“Well, I’m pretty busy right now, but I’ll do my best. Got any oakum, cap’n?”
The gasoline man went in search of some and when he returned the holes were temporarily stopped up and the carpenter ambled off for his dory. The others carried the tender down to the water and towed her around to the end of the float. Presently the carpenter returned in a disreputable tub of a dory and the tender was towed away. The gasoline man, who had given them the pleasure of his company continuously since the tender was examined, finally took himself off to carry gasoline to a small launch which had puffed up to the float, and the Four seated themselves in the cockpit and looked inquiringly from one to another.
“It’s mighty funny,” said Dan.
“The mystery deepens,” said Tom excitedly.
“It certainly does,” agreed Bob, “eh, Nel?”
“I think the mystery is explained,” Nelson replied quietly.
“The dickens you do!” exclaimed Dan. “What’s the explanation?”
“The boat hook.”
“Boat hook? What boat hook?” asked Bob impatiently.
“The one that made those holes.”
“Well, but——!”
“It’s as clear as daylight now,” said Nelson. “There’s only one person we know of who would deliberately stave holes in that boat.”
“Who’s that?” asked the others in chorus.
“Captain Sauder!”
CHAPTER XIII—WHEREIN DAN TELLS A STORY AND TOM IS INCREDULOUS
“By Jove!” murmured Bob.
“Then you think—?” began Dan.
“I think that the Henry Nellis happened along this morning, saw Spencer Floyd out there in the tender, took him aboard and knocked holes in our boat in the hope of sinking her.”
“But—!” exclaimed Bob. Then he stopped and looked thoughtful. Finally he nodded his head. “Yes, that’s just about what happened,” he concluded.
“That’s right,” said Dan.
“And he got Spencer again after all,” added Tom unhappily.
“Well, we did the best we could for him,” said Nelson. “If we had kept him aboard the officer would have got him.”
“But what I don’t understand,” said Bob, “is how Captain Sauder happened to be here. If he expected the officers to catch Spencer and return him to Sanstable why did he leave there?”
“We don’t know that he did expect them to send Spencer back to Sanstable. Maybe he told them to hold him here until he came.”
“That’s it!” Tom cried. “And he was on his way here when he found Spencer in the tender. So instead of coming into the harbor he just went on.”
“Right-O,” said Dan. “You’re a regular Sherlock W. Holmes, Tommy.”
“That blamed old pirate was smarter than we were, after all,” said Tom disgustedly. “Couldn’t we follow him and—and——?”
“Take Spencer away by main force?” laughed Nelson. “I’m afraid not, Tommy. Especially as we don’t know where the schooner has gone.”
“Spencer said she was going to Newfoundland, didn’t he?” asked Tom.
“And you propose that we follow it up there?”
“But we might catch her before she got there!”
“That would be a wild-goose chase for sure,” said Dan. “No, I guess we’ve done our duty by Spencer. After all, I dare say he will be able to put up with the captain for another voyage, although I’d hate to have to do it myself, and that’s a fact.”
“Maybe Spencer will manage to slip away again,” said Bob. “Let’s hope so, anyway.”
“You bet! Poor little cuss!” muttered Dan.
Spencer’s fate continued the subject for discussion all the rest of the day, but, as Dan had said, their duty in the affair seemed to have ended and it was decided that the next day, as soon as they could do so, they would continue on to Newport for their mail and then to New York.
They went for a long walk before supper-time, visiting the lighthouse and a life-saving station, and returning at six o’clock very hungry, so hungry, in fact, that the possibilities of the Vagabond’s larder seemed quite inadequate to the demands of the occasion. So they returned to the hotel in the village and fared very well indeed. After supper they adjourned to the writing room and levied on the hotel stationery. Everyone found plenty to write home about and for half an hour the pens scratched diligently. It was Tom whose ideas were exhausted first. After addressing and sealing his letter and thumping a stamp on to the corner of the envelope he picked up a newspaper and tilted himself back in his chair under the light. Two minutes later the front legs of the chair hit the floor with a crash.
“The Sue won!” cried Tom.
The others frowned but failed to look up from their letters.
“I say, you chaps!” called Tom more loudly. “The Sue won!”
“For gracious sake, Tommy,” protested Bob, “shut up! How do you think we’re going to write letters when——”
“Oh, go ahead and write your old letters,” grumbled Tom. “I thought you’d want to know how it came out, that’s all.”
“What’s he talking about, Bob?” Dan asked.
“I’m telling you that the Sue won,” answered Tom with dignity.
“Won what?”
“The race, you idiot!”
“Sue who? What race?”
“Who’s being sued, Tommy?” asked Nelson, looking up from his sixth sheet of paper. Tom looked about him despairingly.
“Say, you lunatics,” he exclaimed after an eloquent silence, “stop gibbering a moment, will you? I’m trying to tell you that the Sue——”
“Oh, Sioux!” said Nelson, turning back to the letter. “I thought you were talking about some one suing some one. Anyone scalped yet? I’d like to live out your way and see some of these Indian uprisings, Tommy. Are there any Sioux in Chicago?”
“There are plenty of Indians there,” laughed Dan, “but maybe they’re not Sioux.”
Tom passed the insult disdainfully and retired behind his paper with insulted dignity.
“Anyhow, she won,” he muttered defiantly.
“Oh, hang!” exclaimed Bob, throwing down his pen, pushing back his chair, and making for Tom. “You’re worse than Poe’s raven, Tommy!” He pulled the paper out of Tom’s hands and whacked him over the head with it. “Now you speak out plainly and say what you’re trying to say, Tommy, and get it over with. Go ahead! Tell us all about it quite calmly.”
“Tu-tu-tu-tell you!” stammered Tom crossly. “I’ve bu-bu-bu-been tu-tu-telling you for half an hour!”
“Well, tell us again,” said Bob soothingly. “Listen attentively, fellows; Tommy’s got a great secret to unfold.”
“I tu-tu-tell you the Su-su-su-su-su——!”
“It’s all off!” exclaimed Dan despairingly. “Tommy’s missing sparks again!”
“——Su-su-su-Sue won the ru-ru-race!”
“Oh! What race is that, Tommy?” asked Nelson.
“Why, the ru-ru-race to New York.”
“The launch race?” cried Nelson. “Is that so? The Sue won, eh?”
“Good for her!” said Bob. “She was the smallest one of the lot, wasn’t she, Nel?”
“Yes. Is it in the paper, Tommy? Read it out to us.”
So Tom, appeased by the flattering if tardy interest, read the account. The Sue had finished last in thirty-nine hours and five minutes, averaging an actual speed of 8.25 miles an hour. With her handicap of thirteen hours and four minutes she won the race from her nearest competitor, the Sizz, by about an hour and three-quarters. The Gnome had made the best actual speed, averaging just under ten miles an hour. Of the twelve starters nine had finished the race. They had found good weather all the way save while in the neighborhood of Martha’s Vineyard, when the sou’wester had met them.
“Say,” asked Nelson when Tom had finished, “when was that race?”
“Why,” answered Tom, “it was the day before yesterday, wasn’t it?”
“Day before yesterday!” exclaimed Dan. “What are you talking about, Tommy?”
“It was!”
“Tommy’s right,” said Bob, “but——”
“Well, if it doesn’t seem like two weeks ago I’ll eat my hat!” said Nelson.
“I should say so!” agreed Dan. “Then we left Boston only four days ago? That can’t be right, fellows!”
“It is, though,” answered Bob. “And to-morrow’s Sunday. We haven’t been cruising a week yet and enough has happened to fill a month.”
“That’s so,” said Dan. “If the rest of the trip is like the last four days—!” He stopped and whistled expressively.
“It’s been great fun,” said Tom eagerly.
“It sure has,” Dan agreed. “Why, if——”
But just then Barry, who had been curled up in the only upholstered chair in the writing room, jumped to the floor, yawning loudly.
“You’re right, Barry,” said Bob gravely. “It’s time we went to bed. Let’s finish our letters, fellows, and get back to the boat.”
The following morning the Vagabond, with the tender once more in place on the cabin roof, chugged past Long Point at twenty minutes past eight. The weather was bright, but somewhat chill, with a bank of haze hiding the horizon toward the east and south. But the weather signals were fluttering a prediction of good weather. Off Race Point Dan, who was acting as navigator, turned the launch northeast and held her so until off the life-saving station. Then it was due east for some three miles, followed by a gradual turn southward along the gently curving coast. For some time almost the only objects of interest in sight, aside from the few vessels which they saw, were the life-saving stations which dotted the sandy coast at about four-mile intervals. Tom found their names on the chart and called them off; Race Point, Peaked Hill Bar, High Head, Highland, and so on. They passed Highland Light at about ten o’clock, or, as Dan, who had at length mastered the science of telling time by the ship’s clock, would have had it, four bells. Then came more life-saving stations, and Tom, who was lolling in one of the chairs in the cockpit, with the chart spread out ont his knees, said:
“This is almost as bad along here for life-saving stations as the south coast of Long Island. Remember how many we counted there that day we went over to Fire Island, Nel?”
“Yes, twenty-three, weren’t there?”
“No, that’s your number,” said Dan unkindly. “I remember perfectly that we counted twenty-nine.”
“Well, if they don’t look out,” said Tom, as he cast his eye down the chart, “they’re going to run out of names pretty quick. Then what’ll they do?”
“Number them, probably,” Bob suggested.
“Well, I’d take mighty good care not to get wrecked off Number Thirteen if I was a captain,” said Dan.
“Huh! Nobody would bother to rescue you, anyway,” remarked Tom. “The lookout would come in to the station and say, ‘There’s a two-master going to pieces on the bar.’ Then they’d get the telescope and look through it, and the—the captain would say, ‘Oh, it’s the Mary Ann, of Newark, Captain Dan Speede! Don’t you know better than to wake me out of a sound sleep for nothing?’ Then everybody would go back to bed.”
When the laugh had subsided Dan said:
“They might name the stations the way the folks named the streets of the town out West.”
“How’s that?” Nelson asked.
“Well, it’s a story dad used to tell. He said it happened in a place out in Illinois, I’ve forgotten the name of it.”
“Huh!” grunted Tom.
“Some folks from the East went out there and settled,” said Dan, “and after a while they decided that, as the town was growing fast, they’d plat it out.”
“What’s that?” asked Tom.
“Why, lay it out.”
“Oh, was it dead? Thought you said it was growing?”
“Shut up, Tommy, and let’s hear the worst,” said Nelson.
“So they got the surveyors to work and pretty soon they had a nice map of the town with streets and avenues running all around into the prairies. Then the question of naming the streets came up and they decided they’d name them after the citizens of the place. So they started in and named the main street after the Mayor, Jones Street. And so on until they’d used all the names and hadn’t begun to get through. So they thought again and decided to use their wives’ names. So they had Mary Street and Matilda Street and Jane Street, and still there were lots of streets left. So they started then on their children’s names and used those all up. Then——”
“It sounds like a blamed old lie to me,” said Tom in a loud aside.
“So,” continued Dan, missing Tom’s shin with his foot by half an inch, “after they’d got through with their Tommy Streets and their Susie Streets they didn’t know what to do, because there were still a lot of streets away out that hadn’t been named. So some one suggested that they might use the names of the dogs. So they did that. There was Hover Street and Tige Street and Towser Avenue——”
“Towser Avenue!” giggled Tom.
“And so on. And still there weren’t enough names. So they began on the cats. Well, most every family had at least one cat and some had two or three and the cats pretty nearly finished things up; they would have finished things up only lots of the folks just called their cats ‘Kittie.’ But they had Tabby Street and Maltie Street and—and lots more.”
“Our cat’s name is Ben Hur,” said Tom helpfully.
“But there were about half a dozen streets still left and they were in a fix until some one remembered that there were several canary birds in the town. So they used up the canaries and had Dickie Street and Fluff Street and Lovey-Dovey Street——”
“Oh, get out!” scoffed Tom.
“You shut up! I’m telling this. And so then everything was all right until they got to looking the map over very carefully and found that they had missed one of the principal thoroughfares, a fine, wide boulevard running from one side of the town to the other. Well, they were in a fix then, for they had to have another name and they’d used all the names up, as far as they could see. The Mayor of the town was a widower and for a while it looked as though he’d have to get married again so they could name the boulevard after his wife. But he didn’t like the idea of it; said he’d resign from office first; and about that time the City Treasurer remembered that his youngest boy had a guinea pig for a pet. They said that was fine, and they took a vote on it and decided to name the boulevard after the guinea pig. Well, the City Treasurer didn’t remember what his boy called the pig and so they sent for the boy. And when he came the Mayor asked him what he called his guinea pig. ‘Piggy,’ said the boy. ‘But that will never do,’ said the Mayor, ‘haven’t you a better name than that?’ ‘His name’s Piggy,’ said the boy. Well, they argued with him and argued with him, and pleaded and pleaded, the Mayor and all the Council, but it didn’t do any good. And the City Treasurer told the boy he’d take him home and give him a whipping if he didn’t change the guinea pig’s name. But it didn’t do any good, for the boy said the guinea pig’s name was ‘Piggy,’ always had been ‘Piggy’ and couldn’t be anything else. So if you go out there now you’ll find that the finest street in the city is called Piggy Boulevard.”
“That’s a likely yarn!” laughed Bob.
“Well, that’s the way it was told to me,” answered Dan gravely.
“Where did you say the place is?” asked Tom.
“Oh, out in Illinois somewhere; near Chicago, I think.”
“More likely it was right in your own State,” Tom retorted warmly.
“Now, don’t you two get to scrapping about your old villages,” said Bob. “Neither one of them is worth living in. Why don’t you live in Portland? Then you won’t feel ashamed of your town.”
“Huh!” jeered Tom. “Portland! S’pose I did live there and some one asked me what place I was from. ‘Portland,’ I’d say. ‘Oh! Maine or Oregon?’ they’d ask. No, sir, I don’t want a city I have to explain. There’s only one Chicago.”
“That’s one good feature of it,” said Dan.
“Is that su-su-so?” began Tom pugnaciously. But Nelson intervened.
“You’re wrong about Portland, Tommy,” he said. “They wouldn’t ask you ‘Maine or Oregon’; they’d say ‘Cement or salmon?’”
“We don’t make Portland cement in my town,” said Bob disgustedly.
“Of course they don’t,” Dan agreed. “Portland is famous only as having been the birthplace of Henry Longworth Wadsfellow and of Robert Wade Hethington.”
“There’s another life-saving station, Tommy,” said Nelson. “What’s its name?”
“Pamet River. Now, there’s a fool name; Pamet. But I suppose they got crazy in the head like a fish when they got this far. I’ll bet the rest of the names are terrors.”
“I heard that years and years ago all this part of the Cape was thick forest,” observed Bob.
“Oh, you hear funny things,” said Dan.
“Fact, though,” Bob asserted.
“Well, a few trees would help some now,” said Nelson. “It’s a lonely looking stretch, isn’t it? They say the State pays out thousands of dollars every year planting beach grass along here.”
“What for?” asked Tom suspiciously.
“To hold the sand,” Nelson replied. “The wind and the ocean play hob with the coast along here.”
“What’s that ahead there on the shore?” asked Bob, pointing.
“Looks like—Oh, I know! It’s the wireless-telegraph station,” answered Tom. “That’s Wellfleet.”
“Let’s get them to report us,” suggested Dan. “‘Passed South, launch Vagabond, Captain Tilford; all well except the cook who is suffering with stomach ache from too much candy.’”
“First thing I heard this morning,” said Nelson, “was Tommy chewing that peanut taffy stuff he bought. I’ll bet his bunk is full of it.”
“I don’t know about the bunk,” said Bob dryly, “but I’ll bet that Tommy is.”
At a little after two they reached Pollock Rip, passed within two hundred yards of Shovelful Light-ship and bore southwest around the lower corner of the Cape. Shoals were numerous and the water decidedly unquiet. The Vagabond plunged and kicked, rolled and tossed until Handkerchief Light-ship had been left to port. Southward Nantucket lay stretched upon the water, and to the southwest the hills of Martha’s Vineyard rose blue and hazy from the sea. There was much to see now, for Nantucket Sound was well dotted with sails, while here and there smoke streamers proclaimed the presence of steamboats. One of these, an excursion boat well loaded with passengers, passed close to starboard of them and they spent several moments in politely answering with the whistle the fluttering handkerchiefs and waving hats. It was nearly half-past five when the Vagabond, with over eighty-five miles to her credit since morning, swung around East Chop Light, chugged into Vineyard Haven Harbor and dropped her anchor off the steamship wharf.
“To-day’s cruise,” said Nelson, while they were sprucing up for an evening ashore, “goes to show the difference between poor gasoline and good gasoline. I’d like to fill a launch up with some of those Standard Oil people, put some of that Sanstable gasoline in her tank and set her fifty miles offshore; that’s what I’d like to do!”
They walked over to Cottage City and had dinner—and oh, didn’t it taste good!—at a big hotel, returning to the launch at nine o’clock through a sweet-scented summer night and tumbling into bed as soon as their sleepy bodies allowed.
CHAPTER XIV—IN WHICH TOM DISAPPEARS FROM SIGHT
When Bob awoke the next morning it was to a gray world. The open ports were rimmed with tiny drops of moisture and the mist swirled in like films of smoke. He got out of bed, traversed the cabin, thrust open the hatch and put his head out of doors. The morning was warm and still, so still that the voice of some one on the wharf hundreds of feet away sounded close at hand, so still that the lapping of the water against the hull, usually unnoted, seemed a veritable clamor. The deck, cockpit floor, cabin roof, all surfaces were covered with miniature pools, and Bob’s hands, clasping the doorway, came away wringing wet.
There was nothing to be seen in any direction, save that now and then, as the mist momentarily lessened, the upper part of the mast and rigging of a sloop moored some thirty feet away from the Vagabond became dimly visible. It was as though some mischievous giant had in the night, with a sweep of his hand, sponged everything out of existence, everything save the Vagabond and the little fog-rimmed pool of water in which she sat. It was wonderful and uncanny. It was also very damp, and Bob, standing at the cabin entrance, gazing blankly about him, felt the tiny particles of moisture, blown on a light southwest breath from the ocean, settling on his face and damping his pyjamas until they began to cling to him. He beat a retreat to the cabin, drawing the doors closed behind him, and proceeded to awaken his companions by the simple expedient of pulling the bedclothes off them.
“Get up and look at the fog,” he commanded. “It’s all over the shop and so thick you can cut it with a knife—any knife, even Dan’s!”
“That’s all right,” muttered Tom, striving to keep warm by bringing his knees up to his chin, “you cut me a slice, Bob, and toast it lightly on both sides.”
“Want any butter?” asked Bob solicitously.
“There isn’t any,” answered Tom sleepily.
“Isn’t any?” cried Dan, waking up very suddenly. “What the dickens are we going to do for breakfast?”
“There’s some lard,” murmured Tom.
Dan leaped out of his berth and rolled Tom onto the floor.
“Here, you! Are you telling the truth? Isn’t there really any butter for breakfast?”
“Not a bit,” answered Tom cheerfully. “We ran out of it yesterday noon and I forgot to get any last night. Butter’s very unhealthy, though, Dan; it gives a fellow boils. I read in a paper just the other day that we eat too much butter and grease. We really oughtn’t, you know.”
“I vote we make Tommy go and get some,” said Nelson, yawning and sitting up on the edge of his berth.
“Oh, I’ll go,” replied Tom, climbing to his feet, “if you think you must have it. It is bad for you, though, honest! Look at Dan’s complexion already! It’s awful! For his sake, Nel, supposing we leave butter out for a few days.”
“My complexion!” jeered Dan. “Look at your own, Tommy!”
“I have a perfect complexion,” said Tom gravely. “It is like peaches and cream. Yours is like—like apple sauce.” He bolted for the toilet room and got the door fastened behind him before Dan could reach him.
“Looks to me as though we were here for a while,” observed Nelson, glancing through a port at the impenetrable grayness outside. “We can’t go chugging around the place in this fog.”
“Maybe it will burn off after a time,” said Bob. “If we get to Newport before dark we can spend the night there. What’s the good of hurrying, anyhow? We haven’t got to get anywhere at any particular time.”
“Well, there’s Dan to think of. He’s homesick and wants to get to New York, you know.”
“The only thing I want to get is breakfast,” answered Dan. “And I intend to have butter with it, too. Tommy’s got to hike out and find some.”
“I won’t!” cried Tom from behind the partition. “I’m cook and don’t have to run errands.”
“We’ll see about that,” returned Dan grimly. Tom, who had begun to splash water in the basin again, ceased operations for a moment.
“I won’t, I won’t!” he called gleefully. “I’ve mutinied. Down with the captain! I’m going to scuttle the ship in a minute. Anyone seen the scuttle?”
“No, but several persons are going to see your finish when you come out,” answered Dan. “We’re going to string you to the yardarm.”
“There isn’t any!”
“Then we’ll keel-haul you, whatever that is.”
“I demand to be put in chains. Then I can’t go for butter.”
“We really ought to have a brig,” said Nelson.
“What’s that?” asked Tom anxiously. “Can you eat it?”
“It’s a place where they confine sailors that don’t behave themselves, a sort of prison cell.”
“How would the ice box do?” Bob asked.
“Huh,” answered Dan, “that would be a prison cell on us; Tommy would eat up everything in there and then we’d have to knock the box to pieces to get him out.”
“Well,” said Tom in an aggrieved voice, “if I can’t be put in chains I refuse to mutiny.”
So he went for butter instead. Bob volunteered to start breakfast and Tom got into the tender and paddled off into the fog on his errand.
“If I get lost,” he called, “you must blow the whistle so I’ll know where to find you.”
“All right,” Nelson answered. “Only you’ll have to let us know.”
“Sure; I’ll send you a telegram.” And Tom disappeared whistling gayly.
The others finished dressing, and then, while Bob started the fire, found the bacon and sliced bread, made the coffee and set the table, Dan and Nelson pulled the deck awning out of the locker and set about spreading it over the stanchions. It had not been used before on the present trip and it took them some time to solve the intricacies of it. But finally it was in place, Dan had wiped the chairs and seat until they were comparatively dry and Nelson had tended to the lanterns. By that time breakfast was ready and Tom had been gone a full half hour.
“How far is the store?” asked Dan impatiently.
“Oh, just a little ways,” said Bob. “Maybe, though, it wasn’t open when he got there.”
“More likely he’s gone and got lost in the fog,” said Nelson anxiously. “If he doesn’t show up pretty soon, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
So, when ten minutes more had passed without Tom’s appearance, the three sat down to breakfast. By that time Dan was so hungry that he didn’t care whether there was any butter or not. They finished the meal and returned to the deck.
“Maybe we’d better start the whistle,” suggested Dan.
“If we call out it will do just as well,” said Bob. “Come on, all together!”
“O Tommy!” they yelled. There was no answer. They tried again and still again.
“Oh, let him alone,” said Dan disgustedly. “He’ll find his way back when he gets ready. I dare say he’s found a candy store.”
“Well, we’ll leave some breakfast for him,” said Bob. “Come on down and let’s get the things washed up. I vote we have luncheon on shore.”
The fog held steadily. Now and then voices reached them or the creaking of a boom as some small craft tried to work her way out of the harbor. But for the most part the silence was as thick as the fog which rolled in across the island. The awning was some protection, but it didn’t keep the cockpit dry by any manner of means, and so they got into their oilskins. When five bells had struck below Nelson got worried and tried the whistle. After the third or fourth blast a voice hailed them from off to starboard.
“Hello, there! What’s the matter?” was the inquiry.
“One of our fellows has gone ashore and hasn’t come back,” answered Nelson. “We thought maybe he had got lost in the fog. Where are you?”
“On the steamboat wharf,” was the reply.
“On the steamboat wharf!” muttered Nelson, looking perplexedly about him into the mist. “But the wharf ought to be in the opposite direction, Bob!”
“Pshaw!” answered Bob. “The tide’s swung the boat around, that’s what’s happened.”
“And Tommy’s gone off across the harbor!” chuckled Dan, “looking for butter!”
“What’s over there, I wonder?” asked Nelson.
“I don’t know,” Bob replied, “but it’s a good mile across in a straight line.”
“And Tommy was never able to row straight in his life,” laughed Dan. “Oh, well, he’ll get onto himself after a while and come back.”
“He’s been gone long enough already to have rowed over there and back two or three times,” said Bob uneasily. “Toot your old whistle some more, Nel.”
And Nelson obeyed, blowing the whistle at intervals for the next hour and only ceasing when the air pressure gave out. And Tom refused to show up.
At twelve they began to think of luncheon.
“Wherever he is,” said Dan, “he’s safe enough. Trust Tommy to look after himself! I dare say he’s toasting himself in front of someone’s stove and eating caramels. So I say we go ashore and find some luncheon. Something tells me that it is approaching the hour.”
“Don’t happen to know how we’re going to get ashore, do you?” asked Nelson. Dan’s face fell.
“Thunder! That’s so; Tommy’s got the boat. Can’t we pull up anchor and chug over to the wharf?”
“I don’t want to try it,” was the reply. “We might make it all right and we might not. There are two or three small boats between here and there and I don’t want any bills for damages. Let’s see what there is in the larder.”
They went down together and rummaged.
“Here’s bacon,” said Nelson, “and plenty of bread.”
“And potatoes,” added Dan. “And cereal, although I never tried it for luncheon.”
“And jam and jelly,” said Bob, “and a can of peaches.”
“And cheese,” continued Dan.
“And one egg,” said Nelson.
“Saved!” cried Dan. “Here’s three cans of corned-beef hash! Oh, yum, yum! Me for the corned beef!”
“Oh, we’ve got plenty of stuff here,” said Nelson cheerfully. “We’ll have some boiled potatoes and hash, tea, bread, cheese, and jam. What more could we want?”
“Well,” answered Dan, “far be it from me to throw cold asparagus on your menu, Nel, but it does seem that a tiny pat of butter would help a little, now doesn’t it?”
“Remember what Tom told you about your complexion,” said Nelson severely.
“I wonder if he’ll find any luncheon?” said Dan.
“Maybe he’s more concerned just now with breakfast,” said Bob. “As far as we know he hasn’t had that yet!”
“Poor old Tommikins,” muttered Dan. “And he so fond of eating, too! I really believe that if Tommy missed two meals in succession he’d die of starvation.”
“Well, let’s get busy,” said Nelson. “We’ll help you, Bob.”
“All right; there’s the potatoes and here’s the knife. Peel them thin, now. By the way, how would they taste fried?”
“Oh, great!” cried Dan, smacking his lips. “Say, I believe this old fog makes a fellow hungrier than anything else!”
“Fried it is, then,” answered Bob. “There’s plenty of lard. Find the can opener, Dan, and yank the lid off of one of those cans of hash.”
“We never got a can opener!” exclaimed Nelson. “I forgot all about it. Use the old potato knife, Dan.”
“All right. Say, this is great fun, isn’t it? Wow!”
“Cut yourself?” asked Nelson.
“Oh, not much. Next time I see a store I’m going to buy an opener if it costs ten cents! Thunder!”
The can slipped out of his hands and went skimming across the oilcloth floor. Luckily the top was only half off and very little of the contents was spilled. Dan rescued it, seated himself on the steps and, placing it firmly between his knees, sawed away at the tin.
“There you are!” he said triumphantly. “It smells mighty good, too! Hurry up, Nel, with those potatoes, or I’ll perish before your very eyes.”
“Where’s the lard?” asked Bob. “Tommy said there was lots of it. Look in the ice box, Bob.”
“Here it is: ‘Leaf Lard,’ whatever that is.”
“Got any water on for tea, Bob?” asked Nelson.
“No, put some in the kettle, will you? I’ll cut these potatoes up, what you’ve left of them; I rather think we’d get more if I fried the skins!”
“Oh, you run away and play,” answered Nelson. “They’re peeled to the Queen’s taste.”
“Perhaps the Queen had more potatoes than we have,” was the answer. “You get out of here, Dan, you’re in the way.”
“Well, I’ll go up and discover Tommy.”