"Well! Well!" Enos Quibb exclaimed again, his watery eyes blinking. "If you air the right party I ain't got nothin' more to say. Only ye might have told me over to the port yesterday who ye was. I'd ha' been saved this trip, an' gas is mighty expensive." He seemed aggrieved.
The tall lad, who had dominated the situation so easily, may have considered the part of the pacifist just then a wise move.
"You didn't ask me who we were, my friend. You bawled us out over there at Blackport—told us we were blocking the sidewalk with our canoes, and drove us into the gutter. I suppose you had to do something like that," he added, gently, "or we might have overlooked the fact that there was a constable around."
Quibb flushed again at this last suggestion, but made no reply. He stepped into the launch, seized the boathook, and shoved off.
Kirby grabbed at his friend's arm. "He's never going to go without asking to see the permit?" he whispered.
But that is exactly what Quibb did. He spun the flywheel, and the exhaust began to spit.
"Dear me!" sighed Horrors. "And he's going without even bidding us good-by."
"Great Peter's uncle!" exploded Kirby. "The nerve of you, Horrors!"
"Now you've done it!" fretted Ben Comas. "What do you suppose he'll do to us when he finds out——"
"Dear, dear Bennie," sighed the bold youth. "You're at it again, are you? Always looking for trouble."