“I hope you wont row us anywhere else, I’m sure.”
“Don’t worry,” again remarked the young apothecary, and in a very confident tone.
“Let me pint you first right for Peleg Wherren’s fish-house, for there’s a good landin’ place at his wharf,” said Aunt Stanshy.
Standing on the pebbly shore, she bowed to the level of the boat’s rail, and then aimed her as if an enemy directing a columbiad at Peleg’s fish-flakes, eel-pots, and other articles, promising to let a cold shot drop in their midst.
“There, I’ve pinted her; now go right across.”
“All right,” sang out Will, cheerfully.
Like a great, gray, woolly blanket, the fog rested on the river, and Seamont was as effectually hid as if fifty miles away.
“Look—out!” screamed Aunt Stanshy. Something big was now looming up directly before the bow of the boys’ boat.
“Don’t run that ship down,” said the president.
“I wont,” replied the apothecary, “if they’ll get out of the way.”