They seemed further than ever now from their purpose. The captain was rather reticent, though usually so genial, in fact, for the first time the scouts felt as if their visit might not be entirely welcome.
Could he be displeased with them? The language of their glances asked that question plainly.
"But we did have the awfulest time," Louise broke the awkward silence. "Captain, it's lovely to sail, and our Blowell was like a sea queen, until we struck that sand bar, then she stuck like—like the Brooklyn Bridge, not a thing could move her. We did break a couple of oars trying to pry ourselves loose, but a sand bar is a mighty power when you hit it wrong side up," finished Louise, proud of her attempt to interest the rather silent captain.
"Anything wrong, Captain?" Grace asked, with her usual directness. "You look worried."
"Maybe I am a bit," he admitted. "But nothing very serious," and he made his pipe serve to emphasize the fact.
"Could we help you?" inquired Helen simply.
The old sea man smiled and reached over to pat her shoulders. She was sitting on the steps, and he sat just above in the hickory arm chair.
"I've been tryin' to figure out who might help me," he replied finally, "and I've about concluded you little girls would be as safe as anybody. And queer thing, too—" he went on. "You're the first—who ever offered to help old Dave, though many a one he has pulled out of that briny."
The girls moved closer to the hickory chair. Not one felt she could break that spell by speaking.
"But it will be quite a story," continued the captain, "and it is nigh on to eight bells now. Suppose you come around here this afternoon after your swim—no, best after dinner," he corrected himself. "The men have to eat on the stroke of twelve, then we have drill, and some government messages to explain—make it two-thirty," he said finally, "and we'll see what we can do."