With the aid of boat hooks the boys had made the Greyhound fast to the Fox, and they lost no time in boarding the yacht they had run down.
There were but three sailors on board the Fox. Stanford urged them to attack the boys, but one of them, the fellow who had been at the helm when the collision occurred, coolly drawled, his voice having the nasal twang of a genuine down East Yankee:
“Wal, not by a gol darn sight! I know some of them fellers, by gum! an’ ef there’s goin’ to be enny fightin’, I’ll hev ter fight with them an’ ag’in yeou, Mister Lord Stanford.”
“Great goodness!” cried Bart Hodge, staggering with surprise. “Is it possible—can it be Ephraim Gallup?”
“Kainder guess it be, b’gosh!” grinned the tall Yankee youth. “I ain’t seen some of yeou fellers since I left Fardale skewl, an’ I’m slappin’ glad ter clap peepers onter ye, by chaowder!”
“Be me saoul! it’s th’ Yankee bane-’ater!” shouted Barney.
“Shore’s yer born, Mister Mulloy. I’m ’tarnal tickled by this air chance ter meet ye all.”
“Ephraim Gallup!” squealed Hans. “Dot vos der poy I von times fought a deadly tuel mit at Vardales! Shimminy Gristmas! Uf dees don’d peen a recular surbrise barty!”
CHAPTER VIII—A CHANGE OF SCENE
Ephraim Gallup possessed a roving disposition, although when away he often longed to be “back hum on ther farm,” and, after returning from his travels abroad with Frank, he did not remain long at his Vermont home.