“It may be at the Cove now,” answered Dick. “Suppose we go down and see?”
“Oh, there’s no fun paddling around in this sort of weather,” said Roy. “We’ll go up to the Cottage and telephone. Then if it is there we can go down in the canoe and get it and we won’t have to paddle home.”
“Won’t we?” asked Chub, ironically. “How do you propose to get the launch up here?”
“We’ll get you to push it,” answered Dick. “Well, let’s go over and telephone, then. That’ll take Chub’s mind from his troubles.”
“And, say,” added Chub, “while we’re there, let’s have a couple of sets of tennis. Harry and I will play you two.”
“Harry won’t be through practising until three or half past,” answered Roy. “Besides, it doesn’t seem quite fair, somehow, to play tennis when you’re camping out.”
“Fair be blowed!” said Chub. “If it will keep me from growing dippy, it’s all right, isn’t it?”
They agreed that it was, and after the dinner things were cleared up they tumbled into the canoe and paddled over to the landing. As they neared the Cottage the dismal strains of the piano, suffering an agony of scales and five-finger exercises, reached them.
“Poor Harry!” sighed Roy. “She’s worse off than we are.”
They stole up to the window and rapped on the pane, and when Harry looked startledly up she was confronted with a row of three grinning faces whose owners applauded silently with their hands.