So he crawled into the cabin, and I helped Jonadab get up sail. We intended towing the skiff, so I made her fast astern. In half a shake we was under way and headed out of the cove. When that British poet stuck his nose out of the companion we was abreast the p'int.
“Hi!” says he, scrambling into the cockpit. “What's this mean?”
I was steering and feeling toler'ble happy over the way things had worked out.
“Nice sailing breeze, ain't it?” says I, smiling.
“Where's Mau-Miss Stumpton?” he says, wild like.
“She's abed, I cal'late,” says I, “getting her beauty sleep. Why don't YOU turn in? Or are you pretty enough now?”
He looked first at me and then at Jonadab, and his face turned a little yellower than usual.
“What kind of a game is this?” he asks, brisk. “Where are you going?”
'Twas Jonadab that answered. “We're bound,” says he, “for the Bermudas. It's a lovely place to spend the winter, they tell me,” he says.
That poet never made no remarks. He jumped to the stern and caught hold of the skiff's painter. I shoved him out of the way and picked up the boat hook. Jonadab rolled up his shirt sleeves and laid hands on the centerboard stick.