“Fine,” shouted Bob at last. “If Mac Gregory don’t vote for me, I’m goin’ to miss the best thing I ever read of. But say,” and he asked the question that had been on his tongue for some minutes, “why is it the Anclote Club? And where is Anclote Island?”
“About three hundred miles from here, over near Tampa,” answered Hal soberly.
“And do you cruise over there?”
“Nope,” snapped Hal, “but say—listen! That’s the greatest tarpon fishin’ ground in the world. Quail are great over on old Perdido, and fishin’ in the bay is fine and dandy. But that ain’t tarpon. Some day we’re goin’ for the big fish—on the long voyage. We’re workin’ for a big boat and enough time. When we get ’em both, it’s the Anclote Fishin’ Club for Anclote Island at last.”
“Are you going this year?” asked Bob eagerly.
“I reckon not,” answered Tom with a smile. “But we are a goin’ to think about it mighty hard.”
Bob sprang up, his face aglow with enthusiasm. It was nearly ten o’clock.
“Boys,” he said—nervous in his eagerness—“I’ll be here at three o’clock to-morrow. If Mac turns me down, hang a black rag on the gate.”