“Bright boy, the elephant is yours.”
“Did you really?” Chicken Little eyed the long strip of cardboard that concealed the name, incredulously.
The Captain took out his penknife and deftly ripped the covering off. There it was–the letters an inch tall in white paint: “Chicken Little.”
“I think we should have a proper christening ceremony while we are at it. Ernest, would you mind stepping up to the house and asking Wing for a bottle of ginger ale?”
When Ernest returned with the bottle of amber-colored liquid, Captain Clarke turned to Gertie.
“We must divide the honors, will you break the bottle over the bow while Sherm pushes off? Champagne is customary, but this is better for a prohibition state, and for young folks in any state.”
Gertie took the bottle and waited for directions. The others looked on curiously. Sherm untied the 182boat, and, holding the cord in his hand, also waited.
“Perhaps we’d better consider Ernest the crew; that cord is hardly long enough to permit the Chicken Little to float off in style, and we don’t want to have to swim, to bring her back. Jump in, Ernest; you know how to handle an oar in fresh water, don’t you?”
“I think I can manage it.”
Captain Clarke explained to Gertie exactly how to strike the blow that should send the ginger ale foaming over the bow, and repeated the formal words of christening until she knew them by heart. Gertie was so interested she forgot to be shy, and performed her office with much spirit, repeating the “I christen thee, Chicken Little,” as solemnly as if she were standing beside a battleship instead of a blue-and-white row boat. It was a pretty ceremony, but it took so long that Wing Fan came to announce supper before they were all fairly packed away in the boat for their promised ride. The six were a snug fit.