After that meal was over—and it took some time to satisfy their appetites, which had been sharpened by the salt breezes—they devoted the evening to letter writing. Even Tom was able to think of something to say without having to call for suggestions from his friends. Before retiring they took up the matter of their route for the next two days.
“I think,” said Tom, “it would be mighty jolly to go over to Fire Island and walk along to the eastern end of it. We could see the life-saving stations and—and there might be a wreck!”
“Tommy, you’re a regular ghoul!” said Bob.
“What’s that?” asked Tom.
“Don’t you know what a ghoul is, you ignoramus?”
“A football goal, do you mean?” asked Tom innocently.
When the laughter had died away, they decided to keep along the south shore until they reached Peconic Bay. Then they would cross the island to the north side and return along the edge of the Sound to Barrington, where they hoped to find Jerry.
During the last five minutes of the conference Tom had been nodding shamelessly. They woke him up, disposed of Barry for the night, and went to bed.