“If you like her as much as that,” said Jack, jokingly, “you had better sign on as one of my crew.”
“I would, like a shot, if you’d let me,” replied Rod.
“Well, if you mean that, report for duty in the morning. My mate won’t be able to help, as he has to do something for his father, and I expect we shall be pretty busy at the ferry.”
“You don’t mind, do you, Mother?” asked Rod.
“Not if it amuses you,” replied Mrs. Farnham. “I would rather trust you in the Sea-Lark than in that canoe of yours, any time.”
And in this way Rodney Farnham was unofficially “signed on.” The more Jack knew the city lad the more he liked him. They were about the same age, and had very similar tastes, and they became excellent companions, despite the fact that one was working hard through the vacation to help his father, and the other attended an expensive New York school and could have spent most of his time, had he chosen, in rolling about in a luxurious limousine. But the sea had a fascination for Rod. He was never so happy as when, dressed in a flannel shirt, more-or-less-white trousers, and sneakers, he stood on the swaying deck of the little sloop, jumping to obey the captain’s orders and feeling the sting of the fresh salt air on his cheeks. He and George, also, became chums, and the three boys spent many a happy hour on the sloop. Their trips in her, now, were not always limited to the regular run between Garnett and Sayer’s wharf and the Point, for Tony considered they were perfectly capable of sailing out beyond the breakwater, in favorable weather, so long as they kept within a mile or so of shore; and Cap’n Crumbie was not long in arranging for them to take out occasional pleasure parties. Sometimes during the evenings and on Sundays they ran down the coast, almost as far as Mackerel Point, and at others, when the wind was more suitable, they chose the direction of Indian Head, there to run within a mile or two of the place where the now dancing Sea-Lark had lain so long in her sandy bed.
Once, when the sloop was gliding under Indian Head, Jack looked up at its well-remembered outline, and his fancy drifted back to other days.
“Rod, have you ever been an Injun?” he asked.
“How do you mean? Played at being one?”
“Yes. In full war-paint and feathers, scalping the enemy, and hunting buffalo, and taking hostages, and following the trail of palefaces, and tomahawking them?”