"Always looking for the easy work, infant," said Rex. "Go wash up the dishes; that's your job. We'll up anchor and——"
"Make sail for Blackport?" put in Midkiff.
"Like fun we will!" cried Phillips. "Aren't going to turn tail and run from those chaps, are you, Rex?"
"Guess we'd better have a pow-wow first," admitted Kingdon. "Time enough to shout for help when we find we need it."
"I wouldn't say a word to them," complained John Midkiff.
"Gentle lamb, Jawn is," drawled Kingdon. "He doesn't like a fuss, of course—oh, no!"
"Not for the sake of the fuss, as you and Red do," snapped Midkiff. "You two are always hunting trouble."
They paid little attention to Midkiff's complaints. The anchor was dragged over the bows. The sail was hoisted. It filled, and the Spoondrift began to move. She was not a graceful craft, but she slid through the water rapidly. The painters of the canoes tautened and they hobbled along astern. Rex shortened the line of one so that they would not bump and damage each other. He steered the cat for the deep mooring place under the two arching trees below the encampment.
"They chose a pretty place to set up their tents," Peewee said, lying on his stomach and trailing dish after dish overboard to wash them. "Just as pretty places all along the shore here," Rex said. "A hundred parties could easily find room on the island."
Midkiff stared at him. "I know you're getting ready to do something foolish," he declared, sourly.