“You can walk away out yonder into the water at low tide,” said Tom. “The beach is a fine one, better than we’ve got at Fair Havens. There ain’t any deep holes at all. That’s a pretty good landing too. It lops over some, but that won’t hurt anything. You’ll get used to it, and it’s easy to moor to.”
The girls scrambled after him down the rocky path, and followed him as he picked his way over the sand bar, stepping from one grass hummock to the next.
“This is high and dry at low tide,” called back Tom. “Guess you’ll have to jump some places now.”
“Some places!” repeated Sue, holding up her clean linen skirt in dismay. “I’m hopping like a frog now, and my shoes are wet. We’ll need a balloon or an air ship when the tide comes in.”
“Here’s the house,” came Tom’s cheery voice, beyond a sand dune, his bare feet having carried him swiftly over the places where the girls had to pick their way. And all at once they saw it, the place they had dreamed of, and talked of, and hoped for, for nearly two weeks. It was gray, and lopsided like the landing place, and as weatherworn as the Carey’s paling fence. Some fisherman had built it years ago, and shielded it from the northwest winds by putting it close against the sand dune; facing south, it looked out over the Sickle. He must have had a variable mind, that first fisherman, for he had started out with two rooms, then added a lean-to, and yet another lean-to, and then had built a third one that leaned fairly over on the original lean-tos. The lean-to portion of the house then leaned all together on the sand dune, but the front part was up on a rock foundation, and there was a fair-sized porch across it that Mrs. Holmes had built, when the boys had taken it for a summer camp.
But in spite of the new supports under the flooring, it had a decided tilt to leeward, from generations of storms that had whacked it, and battered it, and all but demolished it. A tall flag staff still reared itself squarely in front of the steps, and at sight of it Polly ran ahead of the others.
“What is it, Polly?” called Ruth, holding to her hat.
“I know what she’s going to do, I know,” cried Sue. “Salute the colors!”
Polly reached the flag staff, and took the “colors” from her reefer pocket, where they had been safely tucked away, against the time appointed. She had made that flag herself. It had been her special contribution to the general belongings of the club, and as Polly ran it gallantly up to the top of the pole, the girls sent up a good, round cheer, and even Tom threw his cap high in the air.
“’Rah! ’Rah! ’Rah!” he shouted. “She’s a-flying a good one.”