Left to themselves. Fred Garrison and Songbird Powell hardly knew what to do to pass away the time. With all of the others away the spot where the gasoline launch had been tied up appeared to be unusually lonely.
"I can tell you what, I shouldn't care to be caught all alone at night in such a spot as this," said Fred, with something of a shiver. "It is about as dismal as any place I've seen."
"Right you are," murmured Songbird and then continued:
"The lonely waters washed the lonely shore,
Where they had washed full many a moon before,
I listened pensively—not a sound
Was there to break the tomblike silence all around!"
"Great mackerel, Songbird!" cried Fred. "Don't go on like that. It's enough to give a fellow the creeps!" But the would-be poet only continued:
"I listened for a single bird,
But not a note my ear there heard,
I looked up in the calm, clear sky—"
"And nervous enough was I to fly!" finished Fred, and went on:
"Songbird, if you've got to make up poetry give us something cheerful.
Can't you make up something about—er—about circus clowns, or apple
pie, or—er—"
"Circus clowns or apple pie!" snorted the would-be poet, in deep disgust. "Well, you are the limit, Fred Garrison. No, I can't make up poetry about circus pie or apple clo—I mean apple clowns or circus, pshaw, you know what I mean—"
"I didn't mention mixed pickles," observed Fred, demurely. "But if you can mix—What's that?"
He stopped short and straightened up on the launch seat, and so did
Songbird. Both had heard voices at a distance.