“’Scuse us,” remarked Hal suddenly, as he beckoned to Tom. “We got to confer a minute.”
Bob used the interval to look about the room. On the wall hung a framed set of engrossed resolutions. They were dated only five years before, and signed by the officers of the Mexico and Florida Steamship Company, deploring the death of Captain Malcolm Allen, who had been in the service of the company in the Mexican trade for many years as master of the steamer Mazatlan. This then was Tom’s father.
“Balfour,” said Tom Allen at last, touching Bob on the arm, “we’ve elected you a membah of the ‘Anclote Island Fishing Club’.”
“I’m sure I’m glad,” exclaimed Bob. “I hoped it was something like that. But how about Mac? What if he don’t approve of me?”
“Then I reckon you’re fired,” answered Hal, bluntly.
Bob could not help showing some chagrin.
“I don’t see why that troubles you,” went on Hal. “We’re takin’ a chance, too. You’ve got the privilege o’ sayin’ you don’t accept.”
“But I do,” insisted Bob. “That is, if my mother consents.”
“There you go,” snorted the doubting Hal. “I knew there’d be somethin’.”