“How about you?” Roy promptly demanded.
“Oh, I’m out of it,” said Garry.
Then, suddenly, such a shout as might have raised the dead resounded. It was Pee-wee Harris, flying off the handle, as he realized the meaning of Garry’s proposal.
“Oh, crinkums, won’t it be great!” he shouted. “And—and—I’ll think up a little kind of a speech to make to her—gee, it’s just like a story, with—with—yachts and long lost brothers and things——”
“Especially things,” said Roy.
CHAPTER XII
PEE-WEE TRIUMPHANT
It was toward the close of a beautiful summer afternoon that a trim Racine cruiser poked her nose around the boat club’s anchorage near Nyack on the Hudson, and brought up alongside one of the commercial wharves, which made an inharmonious background to the spotless white hull and shining mahogany cabin. She made no more noise than a canoe. The first rays of the declining sun fell upon her knife-like brass bow and reflected from her shining metal parts. As she touched the dock several scouts scrambled from her and made her fast.
“Jimin-ety! But she gets over the water!” remarked Connie Bennet. “We’d have been a couple of days or more coming down in the Good Turn.”
“And doesn’t she take the hills fine!” said Roy Blakeley.
“She’s a regular boat,” observed Garry.