The Admiral referred the question to his watch. Polly loved that watch. It was really an old friend of the family. It was a thin watch, of old gold, with a dull gold face, and black hands and figures on it, and more than that, it struck the hours, in a queer, high-pitched little ring.
“Eleven thirty-five it is, Polly. Will you be back by one sharp?”
“Yes, sir,” promised Polly, and off they went, Indian file, along the two-plank walk, with the tall, awkward figure in overalls leading.
“Seems to be an able seaman,” commented the Admiral, comfortably to himself, as he went back to his easy chair and the budget of mail that awaited him, and if Tom could only have heard him, he could not have asked for higher praise.
The Admiral’s opinion was verified by the girls before half an hour had passed. In that brief time, Tom had subdued even Polly with the breadth and depth and height of his knowledge of boats and sailor craft. One mile from the hotel they came to the Carey house. There was a good-sized boat dock, with a dozen or more sail boats moored alongside, and several row boats. A large signboard nailed up on crossbeams notified the passing world that it had reached the port of “Fair Havens.” A boardwalk led up from the dock over the beach to the house. It made the girls think of a house built of cards that first time they saw it. Not but what it was solid enough, but it seemed to be in sections, and one part leaned comfortably over for support on all the other adjacent parts. Once upon a time it had been painted red, but wind and storms and the drifting, beating sand had scraped off nearly every vestige of paint, and left the boards smooth and clean as a freshly-scrubbed oak floor. On the south side of the house around the kitchen door was a little garden enclosed by a paling fence, and hollyhocks grew nearly to the eaves, in tall, regular rows like grenadiers. A honeysuckle vine climbed over the side wall, and there was the sweet fragrance of stocks and sweetbrier over all, with sweet peas reaching out loving tendrils through the palings.
“My sister takes care of our garden,” said Tom, proudly. “She can do anything she sets her hand to. Mother says she’s just like Aunt Cynthy over in Eastport. She tried to paint the fence white, but it didn’t last. When winter comes, the sand just beats up here, and eats it off clean. Don’t you want to stop in, and get acquainted?”
Indeed they did want to, Polly replied promptly, so up the plank walk they went to the side door. Tom pointed out the arching framework above it, and its crimson rambler.
“I nailed that portico up there,” he told them. “And Nancy transplanted the rambler.”
“It’s ever so pretty,” the girls said heartily, and Tom picked some of the sweet red roses for each of them. Inside the house some one was singing, but when they tapped on the door it ceased, and Nancy herself came to greet them. She was tall and tanned, this Maine shore girl, and though she was only thirteen, her head topped Kate’s. Her long fair hair was bound around her head in two braids, and her eyes were as frank and as blue as Tom’s; as Polly said afterwards, her fair hair and blue eyes looked out of place in contrast with her tanned arms and face. But they saw at a glance that here was a neighbor worth having, and one to be cultivated. Mrs. Carey welcomed them warmly. She was just Nancy grown plumper and older, and she even wore her hair in the same way, two long braids wound around her head like a wreath. Isabel tried to do hers up that way the very next day, but gave it up.
While they talked of their summer plans, and Polly went down to the landing with Nancy to look over the boats there, the girls watched Mrs. Carey fry fish balls, and it was a ceremony. Not in any ordinary frying pan did she fry them, but in a deep kettle, just as Aunty Welcome fried doughnuts, and when the balls came out they were laid in a draining pan, all cooked to a delicious golden brown, until your mouth watered just to look at them.