“So am I,” he admitted promptly, “and proud of it! ‘Lazy’ is a much-abused word. In a world of work it has got a bad name. But it is the ideal of all workers, after all—the state they save and strive for.”
Walter was sitting on Phœbe Norris’ little porch, which overlooked the water. Now that the trip was finished he seemed to slump into despondency. His jaw dropped and his eye took on the stare of an idiot. Certainly he looked a hopeless case.
Richard took a rocker beside him. Jerry stood back and watched.
“Can’t get over that wind-pocket,” Richard tried to stir him into mental wakefulness. “Still looks like magic to me.”
Walter’s face became animated. He had cat-boated all over the upper part of the Lake, he told Richard, ever since he was big enough to steal away from home. He knew a lot about that Lake that the other fellows did not know. Upon being pressed for further information, he said that he had sailed with the two best skippers on the Lake, Captain Fagner and Captain Tyler, but he could tell them a thing or two. Tyler was a careful man; he knew the Lake pretty well, but he took few chances; sailed a steady race and often won through sheer sticking to it. Fagner was more daring; he broke all the rules—split tacks when there seemed to be no good reason; dared shallow water when the sail was full; declined to reef until the stick began to pull out the back stays, and won often through sheer pluck. But there were some things about the Lake that neither man knew.
“Good!” cried Richard; “when you get your own boat, Captain Wells, we’ll make those fellows hump themselves.”
At that the light gleamed a moment in Walter’s eyes, and then went out.
“Wouldn’t you like to be your own skipper on a regular Class A boat?” Richard asked.
“Sure,” Walter mumbled; “but,” he jerked his head toward “Red Jacket,” “what’s the use of talkin’?”
“None whatever!” agreed Richard. “We’re beyond the talking stage, old boy. Mrs. Wells is going to stake you for a real boat.”