“Did he have any invisible badges on?” Doc asked slyly.
“Doesn’t Tomasso look too sweet for anything?” teased Roy.
“Cut it out,” grumbled Tom. “It’s time to get supper.”
They stayed at their mooring that night and lolled about on the cabin roof of the Honor Scout while Harry Stanton strummed his ukulele and those who knew the soft music of the far-off Pacific isles hummed the airs which seem nowhere so melodious as on the water. A group of small boys from the unkempt waterside section caught the strains and shuffled down, grimy and ragged, to sprawl upon the piles of lumber on the wharf, staring with wide open eyes, and listening. To them it was like a circus come to town. To the scouts it was a new kind of camp fire.
In the morning they were gone, doubtless leaving a refreshing memory with the youthful denizens of that squalid neighborhood.
The Hudson above Troy is no longer of majestic beauty and the voyagers were not sorry for the novelty which presented when they entered the canal. At least, they did not have to “squint” for hidden perils, though the locks played sorry havoc with the beautiful enameled freeboard of the Honor Scout.
“Cruising in a canal is about as exciting as a hike on Broadway,” commented Roy.
“You said something,” agreed Connie.
It was not long, indeed, before the novelty began to wear off, and they were one and all glad when the boats emerged into the broad expanse of Lake Champlain.
“Lake Champlain,” said Roy, contemplating it in his favorite attitude, sitting on the cabin roof with his hands clasped about his updrawn knees; “Lake Champlain rises early in the morning, takes a northerly course, and flows into the sink. Correct, be seated, Master Blakeley.”