“I am getting rather tired of this,” said Fitz, at last. “I suppose it’s very nice to them, and they feel very grateful to your father for bringing the guns and ammunition to beat off this other President fellow; but keeping on with all this seems so babyish and silly. Why can’t they say, ‘Thank Heaven!’ and have done with it?”
“Because they are what they are,” said Poole, half contemptuously. “Why, they must have been spoiling their gardens to bring all these flowers. They are no use to us. I should call that boat alongside—that big one with the flag up and all those well-dressed women on board.”
“No, don’t!” cried Fitz excitedly. “Why, they’d come and shout more than ever, and begin singing again. What’s the good of doing that?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Poole; “and I should tell them that it would be a deal more sensible to go back and fetch us a boat-load of fruit and vegetables, and fowls and eggs.”
“Ah, to be sure,” cried Fitz. “It would please old Andy too; but—but look there; they are more sensible than you think for.”
“Well done!” cried Poole, “Why, they couldn’t have heard what I said.”
“No,” said Fitz, “and if they had there wouldn’t have been time. You must have telegraphed your thoughts. Why, there are two boat-loads.”
“Three,” said Poole.
And he was right, and a few minutes later that number of good-sized market-boats were close alongside, their owners apparently bent upon doing a good stroke of trade in the edibles most welcome to a ship’s crew after a long voyage.
“Well, boys,” said the skipper, joining them, “who’s going to do the marketing? You, Poole, or I?”