During their stay in camp the lads had profited in every way. The scout program as sent out for camps by headquarters had been gone, through with some modifications, and Sim Jeffords had qualified as a first-class scout while Martin Green, Walter Lonsdale and Joe Digby, once more as merry as ever, were all fitted for their second-class scout diplomas. The prospect of another patrol in Hampton had been discussed and the outlook for one seemed favorable.
As the last notes of Andy's call—to turn to the subject of the opening of this chapter—rang out the tousle-headed, sleepy-eyed scouts appeared from their tents and found themselves enveloped in a fleecy mist—such a light fog as is common on that part of the Atlantic coast at this season of the year.
"Pretty thick!" was Rob's comment as he doused his face in his tin basin.
"Hull-o-o-o!" suddenly hailed a voice from the water, "got any breakfast fer an old shipmate?"
Through the fog the boys could make out the dim outline of the captain's motor boat even if it's apoplectic cough had not already told them it was there.
"Sure, come ashore," hailed Merritt.
A few moments later the hearty old seaman was sitting down with the lads and performing miracles of eating.
"It's a good thing we haven't all got your capacity," remarked Rob, laughing, "or that provision tent wouldn't have held out very long."
"Wall, boys," observed the captain, drawing out a black pipe and ramming some equally black tobacco into it with a horny thumb, "a full hold makes fair sailin', that's my motto and 'Be Prepared' is yers. A man can be no better prepared than with a good meal under his belt. Give me a well-fed crew and I'll navigate a raft to Hindustan, but a pack uv slab-sided lime juicers couldn't work a full-rigged ship uv the finest from here to Ban-gor."
Having delivered himself of this bit of philosophy, the captain passed on to another subject.