The sloop was moored at Garnett and Sayer’s wharf, under the guarding gaze of Cap’n Crumbie, who had promised Jack he would keep an eye on her.
“I was watching you,” said that worthy a little later to Jack. “You seem to handle her all right. But mind you, it’s one thing to sail a sloop on a day like this, and a song with a different tune when there’s rough weather.”
Another five days remained before the summer vacation began, and Jack spent the afternoons making himself more proficient in the art of handling his new craft. After coming ashore on the last evening, he and his mate spent an hour or two engaged in some mysterious occupation at the Santo boat-house. They requisitioned a saw, a hammer, tacks, part of an old sheet, a five-cent paint-brush, and some paint. Then they were quiet for a while, working away by the aid of a lantern.
After a while Tony saw them and approached.
“Don’t come here yet, Dad,” urged George.
“What are you two young conspirators up to now?” asked the boat-builder.
“We’re artists, Dad,” replied George, chuckling. And then they were quiet again.
“There,” said Jack at length. “How’s that?”
“It’ll fetch them, all right,” commented the mate of the Sea-Lark, with complete satisfaction.
It was a perfect summer morning when Holden’s Ferry came into being. The lightest of breezes came in from the south, leaving a bare ripple on the placid water of Greenport harbor. The townsfolk were only just beginning to be astir when two figures emerged from the Santo boat-yard bearing something which might have been a picture, judging by its shape and size. One or two persons stared curiously as they passed, while Cap’n Crumbie—who, though now officially off duty with the coming of day, was on the wharf as usual—greeted the boys with a puzzled look.