[CHAPTER VII]
THE CRUISE BEGINS
Behold, then, the Jolly Roger proceeding, as Chub phrased it, “under her own sail” up the Hudson River in the middle of a glorious July afternoon. There was a fresh little breeze quartering down the river and the surface of the broad stream was merry with whitecaps. The long, blue pennant which Dick had discovered in the wheel-house snapped and waved from the pole. Chub said he didn’t know what a blue pennant meant, but that since it looked mighty well they’d fly it. Roy hoped it wasn’t a demand for assistance or a token of sickness on board. They wanted to dip it as they passed Grant’s tomb, white and stately on the crest of the hill, but the halyards had got twisted, and by the time they were righted there was nothing to salute but a dingy little tugboat.
With both tide and wind against her the house-boat made slow progress, and Chub was inclined to be impatient.
“We’ll never get to Ferry Hill this side of Christmas!” he declared. “I vote we name her over, and call her the Slow Poke.”
Dick and Roy applauded instantly. Chub was at the wheel and the others were standing behind him at the open door of the wheel-house, ready with suggestions and assistance, Dick having been dragged away from the engine almost by main force.
“Fine!” said Dick. “Only she’s got Jolly Roger painted on her bow.”
“That’s all right,” said Chub. “Mr. Cole said we could do anything we liked with her. When we get to a town we’ll buy some paint and rename her.”
“It’s a good name,” laughed Roy. “I wonder Mr. Cole never thought of it himself.”
“Maybe he did; she’s had all sorts of names; he said so. Now what’s that little sail-boat trying to do? If she doesn’t look out she’ll get run over.” Chub blew the whistle warningly.