“Looks like Bob Trent’s dory,” commented his brother.
“It is,” was the answer. “Wonder what he’s in such a hurry about?”
They watched the rower in silence for a few minutes, while Mrs. Racer played on, too interested in the game to miss her sons. A little later Bob’s boat grounded on the shelving beach. He leaped out, pulled it up farther on the sands, and then, seeing the two Racer boys regarding him, he sang out:
“There she blows! A whale! Almost dead, and headed for shore. There she blows!”
He pointed out across the bay.
“A whale?” cried Frank.
“Maybe it’s our whale!” exclaimed Andy. “Let’s go out and get it!”
He looked at his brother. Then both glanced over to where their mother was posing for a difficult shot.
“Come on!” cried Andy, and Frank followed him in a race to the beach, where Bob Trent awaited them. Out on the bay they could see two misty fountains of spray blown into the air—the spouting of the wounded whale.