"I prefer people who put their welcome in writing," retorted Joe.
At that Ab Perkins, with a whoop, made for a table. From it he snatched up a cork, one end of which had been burned to a char.
"Come on, then, fellows," proposed Ab Perkins, gleefully; "we'll write our welcome on Joe's face."
"Will you, though?" demanded Dawson, crouching low, as though for a football tackle. He caught Ab, and rising with that boisterous youth, toppled him over. Ab Perkins went sprawling; fortunately for him he landed across the mattress.
"Hold on!" expostulated Tom Halstead. "The reception committee is excused—fired—bounced, in fact. Now, stop all this monkey-business, and let's get down to trade topics. But, first of all——"
Tom paused to spit out two or three fragments of down feathers. Then he crossed to where the water pitcher stood on a tray. Pouring out a glass of water, Halstead took a mouthful, while the late mutineers looked on expectantly.
"O-oh! Ugh! Waugh! Wow!" sputtered Tom, expelling his mouthful into a waste-water jar beside the wash-stand. "That water's salt!"
"Well, what of it, you bo'sun's mate of a lobster trap?" demanded Ab Perkins, aggressively. "Is it the first time you've ever hit up against salt water?"
"Now, see here, fellows," grinned Halstead, looking around at the impish faces of the first-comers, "this is all right. We know how glad you are to see us. Your pleasure is far greater than we had ever dared to hope——"
"Oh, we can show more pleasure!" proposed Dick.