“What day of the month is this?” demanded Roy.
“Fourteenth,” hazarded Chub.
“Fifteenth,” answered Dick, doubtfully.
“We need a calendar,” said Roy, looking vaguely about the cabin. “But whether it’s the fourteenth or fifteenth, fellows, we ought to write to Harry. She’s going home the twentieth and we promised to be there in three weeks. That would be the twenty-first.”
“That’s so,” said Chub. “We’ve only got seven more days. You write, Roy, like a good chap.”
“What shall I say?”
“Just tell her we’ll be along the twenty-first. Of course, we don’t have to start right off after we get there. I think it would be fun to stay there a while, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Roy left the window-seat on which he had been stretched and went over to the table to write. “Let me take your fountain-pen, Dick, will you? Mine’s dry.”
“You can take it if you can find it,” answered Dick, looking up from his book. “I haven’t seen it since I loaned it to Chub yesterday.”