“I guess we’d better start along. It must be—gee! it’s after eight! I didn’t think it was so late. Let’s get back into our rags, Bee, and hike.”
“Jack, if it’s after eight,” said Faith, “they can’t go on the ferry. You know it stops at seven-thirty.”
“That’s so; and I’m sorry, fellows. I tell you what, though. You get your clothes changed and I’ll row you across. All we’ll have to do is walk over to Johnson’s and I’ll borrow one of his dories.”
“But isn’t it raining?” objected Hal.
“Not a bit. Hasn’t been for an hour or more. In fact—” Jack pushed a shade aside and peered out—“the stars are out bright.”
“But isn’t it a longish way across to town?” asked Bee.
“About a mile, but that isn’t far. Want to come along, Faith?”
“May I, Auntie?”
“Why, yes, I suppose it won’t do you any harm. But you see that the seats are dry, Jack.”
And so ten minutes later the quartette set out very merrily across the Neck, which was quite narrow between Herrick’s Cove and the harbor. They climbed the hill back of the cottage, past the spring from which Jack piped his water to the sloop, across the winding road, through somebody’s back yard and so came to the harbor side, where in front of them numberless lights pricked out the dark water and the town beyond. Westward the red gleam of the breakwater beacon shone dully. Jack led the way down the lane toward the float. As they passed the house a door opened and a man’s voice asked: “What’s up?”