"You petter go along mit your friends in dot catboat, Ikey," said Mr. Rosenmeyer, who was listening with both ears and his eyes wide open. "If there iss one of them German submarines in dese waters idt shouldt be known yet. Ain't that right?"
"Yes. We'd have to report it, Papa, to the naval authorities," admitted Ikey seriously.
"Vell, you go right along den," urged his father. "Nefer mindt yet de winders. I can get a winder washer easy."
"Well, if you don't mind, Papa," said Ikey, with commendable hesitancy.
"Come along, Ikey," urged Frenchy under his breath. "And be sure you bring along your submarine tackle—I mean your bass rod," and he rolled out of the store, chuckling to himself.
"Undt take a lunch, Ikey!" cried Mr. Rosenmeyer after his son. "Ham, undt bologna, undt cheese, undt there's some fine dill pickles——"
"Oh, my!" groaned his son. "No dill pickles."
He joined Frenchy in a few minutes with a basket crammed with things to eat, as well as his fishing tackle. It was not far to Bridger's float, off which the twenty-four-foot catboat, Sue Bridger, was moored.
Ikey remarked: "Sometimes I almost faint when I see the change in papa. He never wanted me to have a bit of fun before. He didn't have no fun when he was a boy. He always worked. That is the German way, he says.
"But he don't have any use for anything German now—not even the way they bring up children."