And there was. Right at the end of the dock was a dink and in the dink was Naboth.
“Hello, Naboth,” says Catty, “what you doing here?”
“What you doin’ here’s what I’d like to know,” Naboth says. “Never seen such kids. Gallivantin’ off and worryin’ everybody to death—like as if we didn’t have enough troubles without you cuttin’ up capers. I’d skin you if I had my way.”
“Hope you don’t have it,” says Catty. “Where’s Mr. Browning?”
“Some’eres with Mr. Topper, lookin’ for a doctor or a horspittle. Mr. Topper’s gone wrong in his inn’ards. All of a sudden he started to holler with some kind of a misery in his stummick or some’eres, and nobody couldn’t do him no good, though the cook filled him up with mustard water and what not. Mr. Browning, he got scairt a while back, and we loaded Mr. Topper into the dink, and lugged him ashore. Never see sich doin’s in all my years afloat, and neither did Rameses III.”
“Well,” says Catty, “can you take us aboard? We’re wet and hungry and we want to get to bed.”
“Pile in,” says Naboth, kind of cross-like.
So we got in and he started the engine and in a couple of minutes we were aboard the yacht. Naboth went back to wait for Mr. Browning, and we went down to see if we could tease some food out of Rameses III.
“Hungry,” says he, and he scowled at us like he wanted to throw us overboard to the sharks. “Mealtimes is mealtimes. Them that can’t fill up to the table goes hungry till next feedin’ time.”
“But,” says Catty, “this is a special case. It’s an emergency.”