“O.K.,” replied Bill and turned to the handpump.
Quarter of an hour later he was completing his labors with the aid of a large sponge when he heard footsteps on the shingle and looked up to see a young fellow in blue dungarees and sweater coming toward the boat, carrying a bundle of clothes.
“Dorothy! Gee—what a change! For a minute I thought you were a stranger.”
“Somebody’s younger brother, I suppose,” she laughed. “These things are miles too big for me—but they’re darned comfortable and warm. You go ahead and change your own clothes. I’ll finish bailing.”
Bill stepped overside and on to the sand, carrying his dry rig and a towel. Dorothy was spreading her sodden clothing on the sand.
“Bailing’s over for today,” he told her, “don’t forget about breakfast, though. I could eat a raw whale.”
“Don’t worry, young feller,” she retorted. “Your breakfast will be ready before you are. Just let me get these things drying in the nice warm sun that’s coming up now, and you’ll see!”
With a wave of his hand he disappeared over the brow of the sand hills, and Dorothy clambered aboard the beached motor sailor. Much to her delight she found a small two-burner oil stove, already lighted, standing on a thwart. Nearby had been placed a coffee-pot and a large frying pan. The lid of the food locker lay open, as did the one containing the water keg.
“Bright boy,” she murmured approvingly. “You’re a real help to mother! Now let’s see what smugglers live on.”
She had set a collapsible table that hinged to the side of the boat and was busy at the stove when she heard Bill’s halloo.