Jim Spurling, Fisherman / or Making Good

E-text prepared by Bruce Albrecht, Verity White, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
HE PLUNGED INTO THE SEA AND DRAGGED HIMSELF TOWARD THE ROCK TO WHICH HIS FATHER WAS FASTENED
Jim Spurling, Fisherman Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America
TO MY BOYS Albert and Edward

Here comes J. P. Whittington, Junior, Esquire, in his new Norman! Some speed—what?
The three Graffam Academy seniors, Jim Spurling, Roger Lane, and Winthrop Stevens, who were sitting on the low, wooden fence before the campus, earnestly discussing the one thing that had engrossed their minds for the past two weeks, stopped talking and leaned forward.
On the broad, elm-lined street beyond the Mall suddenly appeared a cloud of dust, out of which shot a gray automobile. Its high speed soon brought it to the academy grounds, and it came to an abrupt stop before the fence.
Pile in, fellows! shouted the driver, a bareheaded youth in white flannels, and I'll take you on a little spin.
He was a slim, sallow lad of seventeen, with a straw-colored pompadour crowning his freckled forehead. The sleeves of his outing shirt were rolled up above his elbows, revealing his bony, sunburnt arms. He wore a gay red tie, and a tennis blazer, striped black and white, lay on the seat beside him.
No, thanks, Percy, replied Lane. Sorry we can't go; but we're too busy.
Spurling and Stevens nodded as Whittington's light-blue eyes traveled inquiringly from one to the other.