“To be suah,” returned the youth addressed.
The scene was the deck of a handsome yacht named the Whistler. She was as clean cut as a craft could be, and carried a spread of snowy white sails which would have gladdened the heart of any sea-dog to behold.
Three boys and an old man were sailing this craft. The three boys were Jerry, Harry and Blumpo. The man was Jack Broxton, the boathouse keeper.
The yacht was a new one, recently purchased by Harry Parker’s father for the use of his son and Jerry.
“Do you remember what a row we had up around this island last summer with Si Peters, Wash Crosby and the rest of the Rockpoint crowd?” mused Jerry, as the yacht swung around the north point of Hermit Island, that spot where Blumpo had so strangely found his father.
“Don’t I, though!” cried Harry. “I wonder if they are out of the reformatory yet for setting fire to the barn?”
“I heard da was,” put in Blumpo, who now attended school regularly. “Si Peters got out las’ month, an’ Wash Crosby got out six weeks ago.”
“Well, I hope they turn out better boys now,” said Harry, seriously. “I don’t see why they want to get into such trouble. A fellow can have lots of sport without doing wrong.”
“By the way, Harry, the great yacht race comes off in Long Lake in a few weeks,” said Jerry. “Why can’t we take our yacht down through the river and be on deck to see it?”
“By golly, dat would be most splendiferous!” yelled Blumpo. “De best t’ing I’ve dun heard of dis Summah!”