He gave an exclamation, a low whistle of surprise. He knocked on the wall with his knuckles. He glanced through the open door, and saw that the others were still occupied with the singing. He backed away from the wall, still keeping his eyes on it. And then he stumbled over a footstool and sat down with a bump on the floor.
He got up and laid the embroidered coat on a chair by the window. He looked outdoors. And then for the second time in five minutes he uttered an exclamation. The fishing-smack was standing close inshore on the eastern side of the island. He could see her moving slowly to the north, her canvas plainly visible above the tops of the trees.
“Gee whillikins!” muttered Ben. “I’ll bet my scheme worked!”
Another minute and he was out in the hall. The singing downstairs had stopped and there was a clapping of hands.
“Come here!” ordered Ben.
The other three followed him into the attic, to the window opening to the east.
“Is that your fishing-smack, Dave?” Ben demanded.
David looked. “By Jove, I believe it is!”
“Do you want to know where she’s going?” was Ben’s next question.
“Shoot,” said Tom.