“Yes, if that party’s name was Mr. Amos Spofford,” Jack replied.
“All right. We gave them into his keeping. Let me see, that was last Saturday afternoon about one o’clock he was here,” the other went on.
“But,” Jack remarked, blankly, “we’ve been looking all around, and have seen no sign of our boats on the wharf.”
“And they couldn’t have flown away like aeroplanes,” put in Josh.
“I should hardly think so,” laughed the other. “But have you looked beyond the end of the dock, in the water?”
“No. Do you mean to say Mr. Spofford had the three boats launched?” cried Jack.
“Well, there was something doing that way, I remember, on Saturday. He had quite a gang of men working under him. That Mr. Spofford seems to be something of a hustler. Over toward that point, boys.”
They were already trooping across the big dock, as excited as any eager lads could be. And no sooner had they reached a certain point than a series of whoops burst from every throat.
“There they are, fellows! Don’t they make a bully show, though, the brave little boats? Say, ain’t this like old times again?” cried Nick, as he discovered the three craft anchored close together at a point where they would not be in the way of any steamboat landing.
“There’s somebody aboard, too!” exclaimed Jack, as a head was poked out of the deck tent of the Comfort, which was the only one of the trio to be thus honored, the others being in cruising trim.