“Go ahead, old Sherlock Holmes,” he grinned, “get a clew.”
“All right. I might find a bag of gold,” retorted Tom.
“Yes; and you might find a bag of cookies, but you won’t.”
Back and forth flew the raillery, but Tom patiently dug around the floor of the drifting boat, in which, to make it more odd, were a pair of oars.
“I guess it’s just a mystery of the sea,” he said at length, “and wow! this sun’s hot. I’ll come on board and get a drink of water. I’m dying of thirst.”
“Well, your enthusiasm soon petered out,” scoffed Jack.
“Wish we could go fishing, though. That’s a dandy boat for that. Wouldn’t you like to?”
“Like to what?”
“Go fishing, of course,” responded Tom.
Mr. Dancer’s head appeared above the hatchway.