A half mile above them the artist’s little cedar tender was bobbing its way across the inner channel, Billy Noon alone in it.
“He’s a mystery, that fellow,” observed Roy thoughtfully.
“Yes, but I’ll bet we’ll know more about him by to-morrow,” said Chub.
“Why to-morrow?”
“Because to-day’s Thursday.”
“Say, you know something, I’ll bet. Out with it, Chub.”
“No.” Chub shook his head. “No, I don’t know anything—for sure; I just suspect.”
“Well, what do you suspect?”
Chub thought a moment. Then, “I don’t know,” he answered with a grin.
“You’re an idiot,” said Roy good-naturedly. “Come on, let’s go back to the landing and get Harry. It must be nearly time.”