“Had the what?”
“His first little yacht. The one he has now—the Swift—is four times as big.”
“Oh, then you have been to sea?” said my companion, in a disappointed way.
“Dozens of times,” I said; “and all about our coast—it’s often rough enough there.”
My companion stared hard at me. “What’s your name?”
“Alison Dale.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, nearly.”
“I’m seventeen,” he cried.
“And what’s your name?”