“Why,” answered Simpson, “I was comin’ back after deliverin’ some pertaters, onions and other truck to Mr. Granger. We keep him supplied with garden stuff. He’s good pay, and prompt.”
“Oh, I see,” nodded Rodney. “But you seemed to be making for this camp.”
“I was. I saw the storm comin’, and this was the nearest shelter; so, for all of our row, I thought I’d take a chance that you’d let me crawl under kiver here. Kinder nervy, wasn’t it?” he concluded, with a grin.
“Oh, I think we’d let you in,” said Stone.
“But why didn’t you dud-douse your sail when you saw the wind coming?” asked Phil. “If you’d pulled it down and used your oars, you’d bub-been all right.”
“Didn’t have any oars, nothing but a paddle, and I was using that to steer with. This is the first time I ever tried a sail. You see, it was pretty hard work paddlin’ that punt across the lake and back, so I decided to rig up a sail to help along. I thought I’d make shore before the wind hit me hard enough to do any damage. Bad judgment, I own up.”
“It was,” agreed the Texan. “How often do you carry garden stuff across to Granger?”
“Oh, two or three times a week.”
“What do you know about him?” questioned Piper, his interest seeming suddenly sharpened. “He was over here to call on us yesterday. What’s he doing around here?”
“Rusticating for his health, and writing.”