“I hanker for a boat ride,” Charley said. “Let us take the punt.”
“The punt, of course!” Steve chimed in. “The punt is just what we want.”
“Oh,” groaned Jim, “the punt is dirty and worn out; and it leaks; and it tips over; and it won’t go; and an awful storm is going to come up!”
“Look here, boys,” the Sage began, “Jim’s half-way right about that punt; it’s vulgar! And besides, it isn’t so safe as it ought to be. Only the other day, I read about some boys that went out in a cockle-shell of a boat,—I suppose it meant a punt; only, as I told you, punt is very vulgar, too vulgar for this author, at any rate,—and all got drowned! And another thing; I’ve been reading about the weather lately, and I understand just how it goes now.”
And the Sage looked so knowing that it was difficult for the boys to suppress their laughter. He was now casting intelligent glances at the sky, the birds, the grasshoppers, the lake, and even the ground. Soon he spoke.
“Boys,” he said, as impressively as he knew how, “I’m saying nothing rashly, but deliberately and—and—correctly. I’ve observed the weather indicators, and a dreadful storm is coming up fast! A storm that will stun an equinoctial, and tear Germany all to pieces.”
And the meteorologist’s form swelled with science and satisfaction.
“Whereas, on account of these gloomy auguries, resolved: that we go home and hide in the cellar hatchway till the storm is over,” Charles commented.
“No, boys; I’m in earnest, and I don’t care to go out in the punt,” George said firmly.