"Get out, you cur!" exclaimed Percy, launching a kick at the beast.
"Easy, Whittington!" warned Spurling. "A dog doesn't forget. You don't want to make an enemy of him at the start."
"Enemy?" sneered Percy. "What do I care for that mangy cur! It'll teach him to keep out of my way."
Jim bit his lip, but said nothing. In a few minutes they were on the wharf.
A wiry, dark-complexioned lad of perhaps fifteen stood near the steamboat slip. He wore a faded suit of blue serge, a gray-flannel shirt with red necker-chief, and a soft black hat. His olive face and black eyes bespoke the Italian. Spurling and the others glanced at him casually; their interest was centered on assembling and loading their flotilla.
"There's the Barracouta!" said Jim, pointing to a sloop moored a hundred yards away. "And there's Stinson's pea-pod tied to her stern. That yellow dory up on the ledge must be Uncle Tom's. He said we'd find her oars and fittings at Haskell's boatshop."
Soon pea-pod and dory were being loaded beside the wharf. The young Italian had come to the string-piece, and was watching the embarkation. Jim saw that tears were trickling down his cheeks.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
The boy turned away, his breast heaving. Jim tossed the painter to Lane.
"Look out for the boat a minute, Budge! I want to find what the trouble is with that young fellow."