“Indeed, we aren’t going to do anything of the kind!” replied Phebe severely, and Toby laughed.
“I was just fooling. He’ll pay it, all right. And he’ll apologize for calling me red-headed, too.”
“I don’t see why you mind that so much,” said Phebe. “I think red hair is lovely. I wish mine was red, like Nellie Rollinson’s.”
“I don’t. I think it’s awful.”
“Why, Toby, you said once you thought Nellie’s hair was very pretty!”
“Maybe it is, on her. It wouldn’t be on you, though. And I don’t want any of it, thanks. Take her in a little closer to shore. It’s flood tide.”
The Turnover was remarkably well behaved today and they ran into the canal long before two o’clock, and, at Phebe’s suggestion, disembarked and walked over to the hills and, finally, to the south shore. The summer season was well begun and there was plenty to see and to interest them. They had ice cream sodas at a little shop and wandered back to the launch about three. Instead of making straight home, Toby, who claimed the wheel now, headed the Turnover toward the middle of the bay, and, with a nice breeze blowing Phebe’s hair about her face and enough of a chop to set the launch advancing merrily in the sunlight, they spent the next hour in running leisurely across to the north shore and back. It was when the Turnover was pointed homeward again, about four, that Phebe, curled up in the bow, called Toby’s attention to a small launch a mile or so distant and some two miles off Spanish Head.
“They are either fishing or have broken down. I’ve been watching them for some time.”
“There aren’t any fish there,” replied Toby, viewing the distant launch. “Guess their engine’s gone back on them. They’ve got their anchor over. We’ll soon find out.”
“They’re waving at us, I think,” said Phebe a minute later. “Look, Toby.”