Allan had caught an oar from the boatman’s hand and now held it within McConnell’s reach.
“I don’t want that!” laughed McConnell, as he swam to the side of the dory. But he consented to let the boatman and Allan lift him over the side.
“Pull ashore!” said Allan to the boatman. “We must get these clothes dry somehow.”
“Well, we had all we wanted everyway, didn’t we?” said McConnell, trying to wring some of the water out of his clothes. “Wasn’t it good that the camera dropped into the boat!”
Allan had scarcely noticed what became of the camera. He had a feeling of being responsible in some degree for McConnell’s mishap, and realized that the wet clothes must be removed at the earliest possible moment, for it was a cool morning that threatened a chill.
As the boatman pulled under the bow of the Oregon, there was a shout from some of the jackies, and McConnell waved his hat, which the boatman had recovered with his oar.
“And so,” said McConnell to his mother that afternoon, “we went to the boatman’s shop and he rubbed me down with a dirty, rough towel, and put my clothes to dry by the stove while I sat on a stool with Allan’s coat and an old pair of overalls on, and something like a boat sail wrapped around me. Then Allan got me a cup of tea and a sandwich from a restaurant. It was great fun; and we’ve got all the ships!”
Allan’s report was somewhat different, naturally, but it was fully as enthusiastic in the matter of the pictures of the famous ships.
As for McConnell, he dried off so thoroughly in the boatman’s shop that he suffered not a whit from his ducking.
“There’s no harm in a salt-water wetting,” he said, “and I got a good snap-shot at the war-ships, anyhow.”