“Well, if that don’t beat me!” he said. “Of all fool things, to steal a yacht and bring her in here. That’s her, though: about thirty-eight feet; white; two jibs, and there’s the name, ‘Viking.’ Well, I never saw the like of this before.”
The man stepped to the edge of the wharf and jumped down on to the deck of the Viking.
“Who’s in charge here?” he asked.
“I am,” replied Little Tim Reardon, emerging from the cabin.
The man laughed.
“You’re the youngest boat-thief on record,” he said, eying Tim wonderingly. “What put you up to it, boy? Been reading dime-novels?”
“Well, it’s all right, anyway,” replied Little Tim, who had, however, turned pale beneath his coating of tan. “They’re our friends that own the yacht. We’re waiting for ’em. Just let ’em know we’re here with the boat, and they’ll come down and tell you it’s all right.”
The man grinned.
“Say, you’re pretty slick, if you are small,” he said. “But the trouble is, your friends don’t happen to be in town. They sent a telegram from Bellport. I guess you’ll have to wait somewhere else for them.”
Little Tim’s eyes bulged out and his jaw dropped. But the next moment he was standing on his head, with his bare toes twinkling in the air, for sheer delight.