“Those identical ones?”
“The same!”
Cousin Esther, who was standing next to Frances, picked up a piece of her skirt between thumb and forefinger and examined it critically.
“What they call khaki nowadays,” she said sententiously. “It is really a kind of lightweight sail cloth.”
“And the oars! What kind of oars? I do wish I might have seen the oars.”
“Here’s one of them,” grinned Tim. “I’ve been lying on it all the way here and mighty uncomfortable it was, but I felt I must produce it.” He proceeded to roll over a bit and pull gingerly at a little red oar that had been concealed up to that moment. “Here it is. Exhibit B! Now proceed!”
“No wonder you were making faces as we came long,” scolded Frances. “Why didn’t you let me carry the oar? It wasn’t very good for a broken hip.”
“Excuse me, please,” put in Breck. “But none of this is very good for a broken hip. I’m not much of a doctor, but I’m the only one you have had as yet and I really must insist, Mrs. Reynolds, upon my patient’s being put to bed and a real surgeon being called in to pass on my work.”
“Oh, thunder, Breck! Not before grub!” grumbled Tim.