At that moment the boat hove alongside, and a tall, sallow-faced lad, perhaps seventeen years of age, a cigarette hanging at the corner of his mouth, tossed a bill to the boatman, languidly rose to his feet, caught the rope ladder lying over the ship’s side, and with difficulty climbed to the deck.
“Glad to see you, Paul,” greeted Remington. “We were getting a bit worried about you. You’re late.”
“Oh, I didn’t think there was any rush,” said Paul indifferently. “Stopped for luncheon at the hotel. Horrible stuff they serve there. It really isn’t fit to eat.”
“I’m afraid your appetite isn’t very good, Paul,” suggested Remington. “Wait till you get your lungs full of salt air, and rough it a bit; you’ll think anything is good then.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Paul remarked indifferently, as he lounged back upon a chair, drew a fresh cigarette from a silver case, lighted it, flicked some ashes from his white flannel trousers and casually surveyed the deck. “What a rum old ship this is!” he continued. “I thought we were going to have a comfortable yacht.”
“The North Star isn’t much to look at,” admitted Remington, “but she’s the best sort of a ship for our trip. No ordinary yacht would do. We’re going to rough it good and plenty, you know.”
“That so? What kind of roughing it?”
“Hunting, fishing, camping, and that sort of thing. I hope we’ll have some good bear hunting before we get back.”
“Bear hunting!” Paul was interested at once. “What kind of bears shall we run across? Grizzlies?”
“No,” laughed Remington, “Polar bears.”