“I suppose so,” replied Jerome. “It must have seemed a thing to shout over at first. And yet we managed to make a go of it, in spite of everything, until—”
“You!” For once she was surprised into a very slight change of expression. “But you aren’t one of them? You’re not a singer?”
“No, not a singer. I tried to be,” he explained, the sadness in his face temporarily lightened by this unexpected little roadside duel, “but there seemed no opening for a fog horn.”
“Do you mean that the Skipping Goone is lying right here in the harbour, and that we passed her by without a salute? It must never get to Aunt Flora!”
“The Skipping Goone,” Jerome replied solemnly, “is out yonder, about ten miles, at the bottom of the sea.”
And he told her the story briefly and simply.
IV
“Which way were you walking?” she asked him, obviously impressed by his adventure.
“I’m on my way back to town. We’re merely camping here till we can get a boat out.”
“Then let’s walk back together,” she suggested.