“He’s after a mahogany fish with long, skinny legs,” said David.
“What I want to know,” said Ben, “is whether there ever was a real mahogany man.”
“I think there was,” said Tuckerman. “But he sailed away in the clipper ship. He probably went to the Barbadoes.”
Tom gave a great yawn. “Well,” he said, “Ben can sit up and talk about him as long as he likes; but for me—I’m going to bed. It’s been what I’d call a full day.”
XXI—THE BOYS AND JOHN TUCKERMAN
Tuckerman pulled himself up on to the rock where Tom and David and Ben were sitting in the sun. The quiet of early morning was on the water; a few terns were fishing for their breakfast; there was the distant chug-chug of a lobsterman’s motor-boat somewhere to the south; but otherwise the campers had the shore and the bay to themselves. Tuckerman sat down, sticking his long legs out in front of him. “I may not be a duck,” he said, “but I’m certainly getting web-feet. I feel almost as much at home in the water as on dry land.”
“You’re a good swimmer,” said Tom. “In fact, you’re an all-around sport. I don’t believe any of the Cotterells knew a quarter as much about the water as you do.”
“I can’t picture Sir Peter sunning himself on this rock after a morning swim,” said David.
“Customs change with the times.” Tuckerman slapped his wet knees. “But I can tell you I’m glad I came on East this summer and learned to be a real man.”
“So am I,” said Ben. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. Of course you were a real man before. What I mean is that the camp on your island has been a great success. It’s taught me a lot.”