“Is that spunky little Canada thistle you call Charlie in the house?” inquired Mr. Sherwood.
“I didn’t see him. Isn’t he in the wagon?”
“No sign of him that I can see,” replied Mr. Sherwood; “but here’s Mr. Bunker—Mr. Bunker, where is the little boy we left in your care?”
“I left him making sand-cakes down on the beach a few minutes ago,” said old Joe.
All eyes were now turned to the beach, but no Charlie was to be seen. Old Joe looked uneasy as his eye swept the shore. Very soon he gave his waistband an unusual hitch, brought down his wooden leg with great force, and said:—
“As sure as my name’s Joe Bunker, the little fellow is gone on a cruise in the Little Susan!”
“Gone on a cruise? What, alone?” asked Mr. Sherwood, looking a little pale.
“Yes, alone, or I’m no sailor.”
Down to the shore of the pond they hurried. Sure enough, the Little Susan was gone. Charlie, in opposition to Mr. Bunker’s command, had gone aboard and, sitting amidships, had rocked her to and fro until her painter had got loose, and the wind, which blew off shore, had drifted the boat out on to the pond, where she was now visible, with Charlie’s head just above the bulwarks, steadily setting down towards a a point about a mile distant.
“To the Point! Make for ‘Long Point!’” shouted old Joe.