In a few moments wind struck the top of the sail. A fair breeze seemed to be floating along four to five feet above the water. Soon Walter came about and tacked straight for the dock. A good sailful was his all the way.
“Magic!” Richard cried as they sped along through the glassy water.
“Wind-pocket,” grunted Walter. “Comes off the hill, I guess. This Lake’s full of them. Got to know ’em if you want to do any racin’.”
Was this a good time to tell Walter about his mother’s change of mind on the subject of the ownership of a “Class A” boat? It seemed so. Richard was turning over in his mind the proper phrase to use—one had to be cautious, for the very mention of the word mother might easily drive all that eagerness out of the boy’s face—when Jerry harked back.
“We’re always having half-conversations,” she said. “I like to finish things; get ’em over and off your mind.”
“Get it off, then.”
“You think you let me win?”
“Can’t tell,” he drawled lazily; “haven’t tried to race you yet.”
“When will you? This afternoon?”
“Let’s wait.”