"Now I'll take a lesson from a man-o-war's lassie."
Shortie, Happy and Wheedles had now gone aft to "be luxurious" they said, for wicker chairs there invited relaxation and the ladies were more than comfortable. Ralph, Durand and Jean had gone forward to the wheel to watch the little pilot's work, Durand's expressive face full of admiration for this young girl who had grown to be his good comrade.
Durand was not a "fusser," but he admired Peggy Stewart more than any girl he had ever known, and the friendship held no element of silly sentimentality.
How bonny they both looked, and how strikingly alike. Could there, after all, have been any kindred drop of blood in their ancestry? It did not seem possible, yet how COULD two people look so alike and not have some kinship to account for it?
Peggy was not conscious of Durand's close scrutiny. She was too intent upon taking the Frolic back to the Griswold's dock without being stove in, for in the homeward rush of the sightseers, there seemed a very good chance of such a disaster.
Nevertheless, there always seems to be a special Providence watching over fools, and to judge by the manner in which some of those launches were being handled, that same Providence had all it could handle that afternoon.
They had gone about half the distance, and Peggy was having all she wanted to do to keep clear of one particularly erratic navigator, her face betokening her contempt for the wooden-headed youth at the helm.
The badly handled launch was about thirty feet long, and carrying a heavier load than was entirely safe. She was yawing about erratically, now this way, now that.
"Well, that gink at the helm is a mess and no mistake," was Durand's scornful comment. "What the mischief is he trying to do with that tub anyhow?"
"Wreck it, ruin a better one, and drown his passengers, I reckon," answered Peggy.