“Fine,” came the answer. “Mama’s got him.”
“That’s Zeb Kline over there,” Mrs. Gibbs informed her husband; “it’s the first time he’s been out since he was sick.... And those folks with Doc French certainly look like his sister-in-law and that cousin of hers, Mrs. Prentiss.”
A burst of music and the report of a cannon came distinctly from farther down the shore. Jeannette, craning her neck, could see a large, glistening white building with a red roof, gaily decorated with flags; there were loops of bunting about the railings of its porches.
“That’s the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club,” said Mr. Gibbs; “the Commodore’s just come to anchor; that’s his yacht out there; there’ll be some fine racing this aft; the Stars are going out.”
“Ham or cheese?” Mrs. Gibbs inquired, proffering sandwiches. She was busy with the lunch, snapping strings, opening boxes, squeezing wrapped tissue-paper packages with her fingers, shaking them, hazarding guesses as to their contents.
“I wonder what Hattie’s got in here,” she kept saying.
“Do have some sauerkraut; I made it myself. I thought maybe you’d like it. Don’t you fancy mustard dressing? ... Well, try the stuffed eggs. Hope you think they’re good. The cake’s Hattie’s; I think her chocolate’s splendid.... Mr. Devlin, some mustard pickles? Some eggs? ... Goodness gracious, papa! Look out for Herbie! He’ll get himself all sopping!”
“Say, Mr. Gibbs, this beer is great! How do you manage to have it so cold?” Martin asked.
“I bring it down a day or two ahead of time and the steward puts it on the ice for me; just half a dozen bottles, you know; doesn’t put him to too much trouble.”
“Well, this is a great little Club all right.”