“What is the name of your boat?” asked Chap of Mr. Brewer, as they all sat together after supper.
“Just now she ain’t got no name. She used to be called the Jane P., after my first wife; but when she died I painted the name out, and this Mrs. Brewer don’t want the boat named after her, because she’s afraid she might die too; so, you see, she ain’t got no name.”
“Well, then,” cried Chap, “we can name her ourselves—can’t we?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Brewer, “you can call her what you please, so long as you don’t name her after Mrs. Brewer.”
The boys heartily agreed to this restriction, and a variety of names was now proposed; but after a time, the boys concluded that a title suggested by Phœnix was the jolliest and most suitable name for their boat, and they agreed to call her “The Rolling Stone.”
“That’s a mighty queer name for a boat,” said Mr. Brewer. “It seems like it would sink her.”
“But you needn’t keep it after we’ve done with her,” said Phil.
“I don’t think I will,” said Mr. Brewer.
And Adam, who had declared the name decidedly un-nautical and with something of an unlucky sound about it, said that after all he reckoned it didn’t matter much what the boat’s name was, provided they had a good wind.
The next morning, after an early breakfast, provisions and a small keg of fresh water were put aboard; the baggage of the voyagers was safely stowed away; a double-barrelled gun, which had been hired of Mr. Brewer, was hung on a couple of little hooks inside the cabin, with the powder-flask and shot-pouch gracefully dangling beneath it; our party got on board, the sails were run up, and with a parting cheer to Mr. Brewer and three of his children, who stood on the bank of the little creek, and to Mrs. Brewer and the other child, who looked out from behind a half-opened shutter, The Rolling Stone was brought around to the wind, and sailed away on a long tack up the Indian River.