“That’ll do, old fellow,” said the artist, sinking into a chair. “Now you boys had better get dry. I don’t want you to catch cold. You,” he added to Dick, “look as though you’d been in the water yourself.”
They explained the reason and he insisted that Dick should take off his wet garments and dry himself.
“I will if you will,” answered Dick.
“Eh? Well, that’s so,” laughed the artist. “I’m not very dry myself, am I? But I’m warm enough, goodness knows. However, it’s a bargain. We’ll get some blankets and towels and go to the studio. I guess the storm’s about over, from the looks.”
And, sure enough, the clouds were breaking and there was even a suggestion of watery sunshine on the opposite hills. The wind had lessened and was now blowing steadily, like a well-behaved westerly gale. Mr. Cole and Dick disappeared and the others found their coats and put them on.
“What do you suppose happened to Billy Noon?” asked Chub.
“I think he was capsized,” answered Roy.
“Smart, aren’t you? I mean, how do you suppose it happened?”
“Search me,” Roy replied. “I thought Billy was a good sailor. I guess we’ll know about after he gets awake. Say, Mr. Cole’s about all right, isn’t he?”