So near were the two catboats that a biscuit might have been tossed from one to the other. No biscuits were tossed, but certain chaff was.
"Oh, you lubbers!" shouted a young fellow in a yachting cap, rising upon the forward deck of the strange catboat, and hanging to a stay for support. "Some sailors! Where are you from? What cart is that?"
There seemed to be half a dozen persons aboard the hailing craft, all young fellows. Kingdon answered the laughing challenge:
"Spoondrift, from Storm Island; Kingdon, skipper; bound in. What boat's that?"
"Nothing To It, Blackport Boat Club. My name's Yansey. Will see you fellows later. Some tub you got there."
"Tub!" flung back Peewee. "Like your nerve! We've got her entered for the International Cup Races."
"Sure you have. Tea cup races, you mean," gibed the other. "Come, now, get that old catamaran out of our way, so we don't fall over her. We're going to tack."
"Look like a lively lot," Red Phillips remarked as the Spoondrift pulled ahead and got into the choppy channel.
"Blackport Boat Club boys. We ought to know them," Kingdon agreed. "I understand they've set up a fancy eight-oared shell, too. That's where we are weak, fellows."
"Where?" Midkiff asked.