“Why, as Kendall and Shuffles do it—in a yacht, with no Latin and geometry to bother their heads, and no decks to wash down on a cold morning.”
“That’s so; but those fellows were the lambs of the squadron, we are told,” laughed Stockwell. “They didn’t have black marks; didn’t pick upon the professors, and didn’t run away from the ship.”
“What has all that to do with yachting?” asked Rodman.
“They were good boys, and therefore they have yachts as their reward,” replied Stockwell, laughing.
“Pelham was as good as Shuffles, but he has no yacht, and has to work on a salary for his living.”
“He has the fun of it all the same, and Paul Kendall will not overwork him. But I haven’t a word to say against them. They were all good fellows, if they were the ship’s lambs.”
“All the second cutters!” shouted the boatswain’s mate, after his pipe had sounded through the ship.
“That means us,” said Sanford. “Take your money and pea-jackets, fellows. Something may turn up before we come back.”
“Ay, ay,” replied Stockwell. “Pass the word to all our fellows.”
In a few moments the fourth cutters appeared in the waist, with pea-jackets on their arms, and touched their caps to De Forrest, the fourth lieutenant, who appeared as the officer detailed to go in the boat, which now, as formally, was called the professors’ barge, because it was generally appropriated to the use of the instructors. It was pulled by eight oarsmen, and Sanford was the coxswain. The party who had been considering the plan for an independent excursion on shore without incurring the perils and penalties of running away, were the crew of the second cutter. The fact of being together so much in the boat, had united them so that they acted and plotted in concert.