"If you expect to win with Horrors as captain of the crew, you'll get specks in your eyes."
"Will I? Well, we'll see. You're so helpful, Jawn, when a chap has a hard nut to crack. Thanks."
"Oh!" cried Midkiff, throwing up both hands. "You always go your own gait anyway, Rex."
Which was true in this instance. Kingdon had to solve the problem himself, and he proceeded to go about it by sailing over to Blackport at the first opportunity and putting it into Yansey's mind to challenge the Storm Island crew for a trial match the first week in August.
Kingdon kept his own counsel about this, but the next day a motor boat halted long enough at the island for a note to be passed to Horace Pence, embodying the challenge and suggesting that the sound, in the quiet waters off the island, be the scene of the proposed match.
For once, Pence showed a measure of uncertainty. He went off by himself, evidently to study on the matter. It was almost supper time when he strolled back by the way of the Walcott Hall camp, and hailed Rex Kingdon.
"Say, Curly," he said to the backstop, "I've been fishing, and I got a bite."
"Who's bit you?" asked Kingdon lightly.
"Kirby. And he's always been such a household pet that it's surprised me, even if it didn't hurt me much," Pence explained with some gloom. "It's about that rolling stone that came near gathering up all you chaps as a new species of moss."
"Sayest thou so?" was Kingdon's interested comment. "Let's hear the worst."