"What," John Quincy inquired, "is the college boat?"
"So many children from Hawaii at school on the mainland," the old lady explained, "that every June around this time they practically fill a ship. We call it the college boat. This year it's the Matsonia. She left San Francisco to-day at noon."
"I've got a lot of friends aboard her," Barbara said. "I do wish we could beat her in. Captain, what are the chances?"
"Well, that depends," replied the captain cautiously.
"She isn't due until Tuesday morning," Barbara persisted. "Wouldn't it be a lark if you could land us the night before? As a favor to me, Captain."
"When you look at me like that," smiled the officer, "I can only say that I'll make a supreme effort. I'm just as eager as you to make port on Monday—it would mean I could get off to the Orient that much sooner."
"Then it's settled," Barbara beamed.
"It's settled that we'll try," he said. "Of course, if I speed up there's always the chance I may arrive off Honolulu after sundown, and be compelled to lay by until morning. That would be torture for you."
"I'll risk it," Barbara smiled. "Wouldn't dear old dad be pleased if I should burst upon his vision Monday evening?"
"My dear girl," the captain said gallantly, "any man would be pleased to have you burst upon his vision any time."