"But will the breeze turn for you to come home again?" asked Hilda. "For if the breeze blows us out, how can it blow us back again?"
"Tack, young woman, tack, but not with a hammer or nails. You'll see, coming home, if this breeze holds out."
"I'll bet you anything that the breeze won't hold, because you've forgotten the other oar," said Edna.
"Then we'll put Cricket up in the bow, to whistle up a breeze. That always brings it."
"It's so funny I can't whistle, when I'd love to, so," said Cricket, meditatively, for whistling was one boyish accomplishment which she could not manage.
"You needn't wish to," said Edna, who, strange to say, could whistle like a blackbird. "You would only have people always telling you, it is not ladylike. I don't know I'm whistling half the time when mamma tells me not to. It just whistles itself."
"Why don't I whistle right?" asked Cricket, dolefully, for the hundredth time. "I pucker my lips up so—and I blow—so—and I can give one straight whistle, but I can't make it go up and down. It doesn't twinkle as Edna's does."
Edna broke out into a perfect bird song of twittering and chirping and trilling.
"There, I just enjoyed that!" she said, at last, stopping breathlessly. "When I'm way out at sea, mamma lets me whistle all I like."
"Isn't it getting near luncheon-time, auntie?" asked Eunice. "I'm dreadfully hungry."