“Can’t you take us ashore?”
“Yes. But this boat of yours?”
“Let her bust up. Don’t care much for sailing. Dad’s getting me a motor launch.”
“You mean—” Don stared incredulous. True, the sailboat was an old model. For all that, she had been a fast one in her day, and could easily be made seaworthy.
“Cost thousands,” he thought.
“Don! Don!” Pearl was tugging at his arm, whispering excitedly in his ear. “Ask them to let us have it. We can fix it up. I want it for my very own.”
So excited was she that her whisper came near to being a low scream. The strange boy heard, and smiled.
“If you can save her, she’s yours,” he promised. “Only get us out of this. We’re wet and getting cold.”
To Don the thing that the other boy proposed—that the boat, any boat for that matter, should be left to pound its heart out like a robin beating its breast against a cage, seemed a crime little short of murder. To a boy whose ancestors for generations have belonged on the sea, a ship is a living thing.
“We’ll take you over,” he said shortly. “Get in. Quick.”