“Of course, we don’t want to be fussy, Tommy, and if it was any place but Newport we wouldn’t say a word. But as the Four Hundred will probably be down at the wharf to welcome us——”
Dan’s further remarks were interrupted by a shower of water impelled toward him by an oar blade. When he had regained his eyesight Tommy was too far distant to allow of reprisals and Dan contented himself with threats of future revenge.
Then house cleaning began in earnest, and it was no small task that confronted them. The decks were to scrub, the hull to wash, the port lights to be cleaned and the brasswork to be shined. And the brass was the biggest part of the undertaking. There was, as Dan complained later, altogether too much of it; stern cleat and chocks, bow cleat and chocks, gasoline and water-tank caps, wheel, deck rail, whistle, search light, lanterns, flag-pole sockets, and numerous bits of hardware such as hatch fastening, door knobs, and locker buttons. Oh, yes, there was plenty of work, and Dan, assisted later by all the others, rubbed and rubbed until long past the usual luncheon hour. But when it was all done they had the satisfaction of knowing that no cleaner, brighter, smarter craft was afloat.
They ate luncheon at a quarter past one, by which time the sun was out in full strength and what little breeze came in through the open ports felt very grateful to four very warm mariners.
At two o’clock to the minute the Vagabond’s anchor came up over the bow, and very dirty it was, to Dan’s disgust, and the propeller began to revolve. Out around West Chop Lighthouse and the stone jetty went the Vagabond, white paint glistening in the sunlight and bright-work sparkling gayly, while from the flag poles the launch’s bunting fluttered in the little westerly breeze. Then Dan, at the wheel, turned the boat’s head southwest and they met the waters of the Sound on the quarter as they sped for Quicks Hole. It was a glorious afternoon and the Four, protected from the sun by the awning, found life very enjoyable. The engine was doing her very best, taking kindly to the last lot of gasoline. They had about forty miles ahead of them and meant to cover it by half-past five. At a little after three they were in Quicks Hole, bobbing about gayly in the wake of a steamer.
“Wonder why they called these the Elizabeth Islands?” said Tom.
“After Queen Elizabeth, maybe,” hazarded Bob.
“And do you suppose Nonamesset, Uncatena, Naushon, and the rest of them were her children?” asked Tom.
“Well,” laughed Bob, “I never heard that she had any children.”
“Oh, that’s so,” murmured Tom sheepishly, “I forgot.”