"All right, Billoo-on-the-spot," I said. "Sally—?"
Sally was glad to come. And first we went out on the point and had a good look at the storm. The waves at our feet were breaking big and wild, the wind was groaning and howling as if it had a mortal stomach-ache, and about a mile out was a kind of thick curtain of perpendicular lines, with dark, squally shadows at its base.
"Sam!" cried Sally, "it's snow—snow," and she began to jump up and down.
In a minute or two flakes began to hit us wet slaps in the face, and we took hands and danced, and then ran (there must have been something intoxicating about that storm) all the way to the pier. And there was the captain of the motor-boat just stepping ashore.
"The man himself," said Sally.
"Captain," said I, "how are we off for boats?"
By good-luck there were in commission only the motor-boat, and the row-boat that she towed behind, and a canoe in the loft of the boat-house.
"Captain," I said, "take the Hobo (that was the name of the motor-boat) and her tender to City Island, and don't come back till Wednesday morning, in time for the Wall Street special."
"When you get to City Island," said Sally, "try to look crippled."
"Not you," I said, "but the Hobo."