Up came Red again, evidently greatly excited. He wanted to know, choking and sputtering:
"Hasn't he come up at all? What's the matter with him? Is he made of lead? That boy ought to be an anchor; he'd never drag on any kind of a bottom——"
Cloudman shot to the surface. He wasn't as good a swimmer as Red, and he was about all in.
"I—I can't find him!" he chattered. "Got to get aboard and get my wind. Hey! why ain't you fellows doing something?"
"We are," said Rex, broadly smiling. "We're crying over your distress. Come on in and eat an apple, Cloudman." With one hand he reached for Hicks and hauled him over the rail by his wet shirt.
Hicks declared himself satisfied with his temporary bath. In fact, a single plunge seemed about all any of the party cared for, the water being several degrees cooler than the inland streams and lakes with which the boys were familiar, as well as the tempered needle-showers of the Walcott Gym.
Before they were dressed the sun broke through the mist, and then they saw something that was worth looking at—Storm Island glorified by the morning sun. It blazed like a green jewel, surrounded by the rolling sea fog—the upper reaches of the isle at first revealed, and then, gradually, all the wooded northern shore down to the lapping little waves that kissed it.
"Some ugly spot, old man!" Red said, addressing Kingdon. "You certainly pick lemons!"
"Purty as a little red wagon with yellow wheels," announced Cloudman.
"I wish I was an artist," murmured Peewee.