“And that’s just what we’ll do,” Clay added. Alex brought out plates and cups and began setting the table, which was not very large, and which was securely fastened to the floor in the center of the cabin.
“There’s one thing lacking in Clay,” the boy said, whimsically, as he rattled the dishes. “If you could take him apart, or look at him under x-rays, you wouldn’t find any quit in him! The more things happen to stop him, the more he goes ahead!”
“That’s right!” declared Case. “When I get grouches, and you get all discouraged and tell monkey stories to hide what’s really in your mind, Clay just shuts his jaws together and goes right through! I guess this wouldn’t be much of a boat club if it wasn’t for Clay.”
“Why, boys, there’s nothing else to do in this case,” Clay said, a flush of pleasure at such an endorsement. “We can’t lie down before every little hill that looms up before us! We can’t give up this trip, and leave Jule to die in this beastly climate. Now, can we?”
“Not in a thousand years!” cried Alex.
“That will do for you!” Case suggested, turning to Alex with a grin.
“Never said it!” insisted Alex. “We all agreed not to talk slang, so slang’s cut out!”
“Slang is cheap,” Clay remarked, to no one in particular.
“Alex will wash the dishes to-night, anyway, for talking slang!” Case decreed with the air of a judge sentencing a prisoner. “That was the bargain. If anyone talked slang he was to wash the dishes.”
“And Case will assist,” laughed Clay, “for he talked slang, too.”