“We-ell,” began Billy, between teeth that persisted in chattering, “a young poet—at least he thought he was a poet—paid a compliment to a girl with red hair one day when they were out walking together. She said she thought his poems were fine, but asked him if he knew the difference between them and her hair. He said he didn’t, but he’d like to. What do you suppose her answer was?”
“Don’t know,” said Mouser.
“Too c-cold to think,” chattered Fred.
“Go ahead—shoot,” ordered Bobby.
“Well,” said the proud and almost happy Billy, “she said, ‘the difference is that my hair’s red.’”
It took a minute for the pun to sink home, and then the boys groaned in unison.
“It’s cruel,” protested Fred. “And on a night like this, too!”
“I’d pitch him overboard,” said Mouser, “only I’m too tender-hearted. Say,” with a shiver, “doesn’t that water look cold?”
“It isn’t as cold as I am, I’ll bet,” said Billy, adding anxiously: “Say, Bobby, isn’t it about time we were getting to shore?”
“Not for a little while yet, I guess,” said Bobby, looking once more at the compass. “We’re keeping in the right direction, and if Takyak knew what he was talking about we ought to reach there before long.”