"Think we're in for a spell of weather?" Red asked Yansey, who was Blackport born and seemed to be weather wise.
"Shouldn't wonder. Though we don't often have anything out of the no'theast this time of year. Just the same, there's been bad wrecks along the coast in June. They keep the life-savers on the job through this month nowadays."
None of the visitors thought of the weather, however, when once they were ashore at the boathouse. It seemed to be a club including all ages and the owners of all manner of craft. But the youngsters had it to themselves just now, as it was too early in the season for their fathers to get away save on Saturdays.
The visitors looked over several of the better-sailing craft while dinner was preparing. Kingdon took up the eight-oared shell question with Yansey, and learned that in August there was always a race with two other boat clubs, and that the Blackport eight considered themselves to be a little the best oarsmen anywhere along the Maine coast.
"To be real modest," Yansey grinned, "there's nothing to it for the other eights. We've got the race cinched already."
"Modesty adorns you," Kingdon told him. "I can see that. Also, why you chose that name for your catboat, too."
"Right! There's nothing to it!" proclaimed the optimistic Yansey. "We've got a new shell, and we keep her greased. Wait till you see us out practicing some day. I'm stroke."
"What did you do with your old shell?" Kingdon asked, reflectively.
"It's for sale over yonder at the boat builder's. Good boat, too, though battered some. Come and see our new one."
Kingdon went, and said nothing more about the thought that had become fixed in his mind regarding the eight-oared shell race.