“Oh, you’re hopeless!” said Frank, laughing in spite of himself.
“And you’re too sober!” declared his brother. “Wake up! Here, I’ll beat you to the dock this time!” And with that Andy turned a handspring, and darted toward the pier, near which their sailboat was moored. Frank started off on the run, but Andy had too much of a start, and when the elder lad arrived at the goal Andy was there waiting for him.
“Now the sodas are on you!” he announced.
“How’s that?”
“Why, we didn’t finish the rowing race on account of the whale, but this contest will do as well. I’ll have orange for mine.”
“Oh, all right, come on,” and Frank good-naturedly led the way toward the only drug store in Harbor View. “But I thought you were going for a sail, and see if we could get a trace of the mysterious wrecked motor boat,” he added.
“So I am,” admitted Andy. “But first I want a drink. Then I’m going to see how Jim Bailey is coming on with repairing the skiff that the whale tried to eat. After that we’ll go sailing.”
“And we’ll see what we can do on our own account,” announced Frank, as a little later he assisted his brother to hoist the sail on the Gull. Soon they were standing out of the harbor under a brisk wind which heeled their craft well over. They knew it was practically useless to expect a sight of the mysterious wreck until they were well out, and so they gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the trip, talking at intervals of many things, but principally of the strange lad still quartered at their house.
“Poor Paul Gale!” said Frank. “It must be hard to lose your memory that way.”
“Sure,” agreed Andy. “Not to know who your father or mother is, or whether you have any, or whether you are rich or poor—it sure is tough.”