“That’s all very well,” answered Tom, “but we haven’t made the achievement yet. That will be when we deliver the deeds to your father, and not till then. And we’ll never, never do that unless you stop your nonsense and let us get to work on the catamaran, or raft, or whatever else you call it. Our present job is to get away from Quasi with the golden fleece. I suppose we ought to sleep now, but—”
“But glue wouldn’t stick our eyelids together,” broke in Dick. “Work’s the thing for us now. Let’s get at it. Oh, I say, Cal, what of the tides? When will they set in strongly toward that little town up there?”
Cal reckoned the matter up and named the hours at which the young flood tides would begin to run. Then Dick thought a little and asked:
“Is it all land-locked water from here to the town, or are there openings to the sea?”
“All closely land-locked—all creeks,” Cal answered.
“Then if we work hard we can have the catamaran ready by to-morrow noon—she won’t need to be much of a craft for such waters—and we can make our start when the tide turns, about that time. Let’s see; the distance is only ten or twelve miles, and the tide will run up for six hours. That ought to take us there with no paddling or poling except enough to keep the craft headed in the right direction.”
“We’ll do it,” declared Cal. “Now to work, all of us. Tell us what to do, Dick.”
“Let one fellow make a lot of fresh torches,” the Boston boy answered. “The rest of us can keep busy till daylight dragging bamboos, big cane stalks and the cross braces down to the shore. As soon as it is light enough in the morning we’ll fashion the two larger timbers, and get them into the water. After that two or three hours’ work will finish the job.”
“An excellent programme, so far as it goes,” muttered Cal, as if only thinking aloud.
“Go ahead, Cal, what’s lacking?”