"Gee! 'bo, aint there nothin' y' aint good at? That's second time—y've got my nanny fer fair!"
At sound of a familiar voice Phil opened his waterproof match-safe and struck a light. He found himself gazing with some amazement into the grinning homely face of "Iron Man" McCorquodale, the ex-pugilist with whom he had exchanged sparring compliments the night of the fog.
"McCorquodale! How'd you get here?"
"On the too-too," responded the Iron Man, rapidly recovering both breath and good humor.
"Don't get fresh, McCorquodale. What were you doing just now, sneaking around our cottage over there?"
"Dry up, kid, on that 'sneak' stuff. I ain't answerin' a damn thing, see,—not till we gets over to where I'm campin'. An' if that aint suitin' you, y'knows what y'can do, don't youse?"
"You seemed keen enough to get away."
"I had m'reasons," grunted McCorquodale. "I ast you to dry up, didn't
I?"
"I'd sooner dry off," smiled Phil, pulling at his wet trousers.
"Where's this camp of yours?"
"Over that way," said McCorquodale, pointing. "We'd better get them boats first, 'fore they drifts too far away."