“Stay here, darling,” said Jim. “I'll make you a present of her.”
“Oh, that's glorious,” said Mrs. Dyckman. “I've never had a yacht of my own. It's a shame to take it from you, but you can get another. And of course you'll always be welcome here—which is more than a certain other big Dyckman will be if he doesn't look sharp.”
“For the Lord's sake, Jim, don't give it to her. She's the meanest old miser about her own things.” Dyckman senior pushed his chair back against the rail.
“Watch out!” Mrs. Dyckman gasped. “You're scraping the paint off my yacht.”
Jim rose again. “I've just about time to make the last train for the day,” he said.
His mother sat up and clutched at his hand. “Can't I help you, honey? Please let me! What is the matter?”
“The matter is I'm a lunkhead and Newport bores me stiff. That's all. Don't worry. I'll go get the packing started.”
He went along the deck, and his parents helplessly craned their necks after him. His father groaned. Jim had “everything.” There was nothing to get for him, no toy to buy to divert him with.
“He wants a new toy, and he doesn't know what it is,” said the old man.
But Jim wanted an old toy on a shelf too high for his reach. He ran away from the sight of it.