"But there aren't eight of us," squealed Peewee.
"More than eight on the island," Kingdon returned with a sudden grin.
"Jumping jacks!" Red exclaimed. "He's raving again. Thinks he can work those loafers over there on Storm Island into rowing material. Going to make a Christy Mathewson out o' that Horrors kid, too."
"Like fun he will!" said Cloudman, mockingly.
"What's the matter—jealous, Eat-'em-alive Jack?" drawled Kingdon. "Don't be narrow—don't! If we could put in some practice this summer——"
"Get up a crew and race these Blackport fellows, I suppose?" Midkiff asked, scowling.
"Your supposing is good, Jawn," observed Kingdom, shifting the tiller just a little so as to ship the cap of a wave that came inboard with a mighty splash and broke up the group of critics forward of the centerboard.
The Spoondrift kept well ahead of the Nothing To It through the channel. It was a fine day, and there were plenty of small sailing craft, as well as motorboats, astir on the ample bosom of Blackport Cove.
To the westward, toward the Beaches, was the anchorage of the Boat Club, where, if any inshore gale did hit them, the small fry would find no rocks to go ashore on.
The Nothing To It wended her way to these moorings; the Spoondrift, with reefed sail, loafed in to a dock near the middle of the water-front.