“We’re in danger of starving to death,” muttered Arnold dispiritedly. “I don’t see what I ever wanted a sailboat for, anyhow.”
The others laughed. “Oh, you’ll be as much in love with her as ever tomorrow morning,” Phebe assured him. Then, after a moment’s silence, she asked wistfully: “What time is it, please?”
“Ten minutes to six,” answered Arnold. “How’ll you have your steak, Toby? Rare or just medium?”
“Medium, please. I’m glad it’s Sunday, folks. If it wasn’t we’d be hungrier than we are.”
“That’s all well enough for you,” replied Arnold sadly. “You two had a fine big dinner at two o’clock, but we just have a skimpy little lunch at my house on Sundays, and dinner at seven. I’m—I’m starved!”
“You might try to catch a fish,” said Phebe.
“I don’t like them raw, thanks. What’s that row over there, Toby?”
“Fog-horn over at Ponquogue, I guess. I can’t tell, though, for this boat’s turned around for all we know. That may be Robins Island in that direction.”
“But the breeze is coming from the same direction,” protested Phebe, “and I haven’t moved the tiller a bit.”