“No!” he growled. “Can’t have nothin’ ’round here.”
“Mother would not hear of owning a sail-boat,” Geraldine explained; “we’ve always had to go passenger on somebody else’s.”
“Who owns that sloop over there?” he asked.
“That’s George Alexander’s. And it isn’t a sloop,” corrected Geraldine; “it’s a cat-boat.”
“Well, let’s confiscate it for Walter.”
Walter looked up with interest. His “pard” had the right spirit. Alone the boy would not have had courage, but the big man’s blue eye spoke a determination that was contagious.
“All right,” said Walter, and got on his feet.
“I’ll make it up with Mrs. Wells,” Richard explained. “Walter’s got to have a boat, a real boat—what do you call them—class something or other?”
“Class A scows.”
“That’s it. We are going to have one, Walt, if I have to crib the money somewhere. But for the present you fix up that ‘cat’ down there and let her go. If you don’t come home alive, I’ll break the news to the home folks. Go along, old boy.” Geraldine had gone into the house. “And when you get back, feeling just right for it, we’ll have a little nip, eh? Just a teeny one—or maybe two teeny ones, eh? When we changed cars at Elmira I blew myself—Jerry’s money; good joke!—for a quart of something guaranteed all pure food.”