"It's a go," was Stevens's verdict.
Somebody knocked on the door.
"Come in!" called Spurling.
To their great surprise, in came Mr. Whittington.
Removing his Panama, he took the chair Spurling offered him. An unlighted cigar was gripped between his short, stubby fingers. There were dark circles under his steel-gray eyes, and his jaw had, if possible, more of a bulldog set than ever. His square, sturdy build, without fat or softness, suggested a freight locomotive with a driving power to go through anything. He was not a handsome man, but he was undeniably a strong one.
He plunged at once into the purpose of his visit.
"I guess you know I'm Whittington's father. I've just been over to Principal Blodgett's, having a talk about Percy. I don't need to tell you how he's spent his year here, so I'll come right to the point."
He leaned forward and fastened his keen eyes on Spurling.
"The principal says you plan to spend the summer fishing from an island on the Maine coast. I want Percy to go with you."
The three exchanged glances of amazement. Lane swallowed a grin. Nobody spoke for a half-minute; then Spurling broke the silence.