He expressed a wish to see the boat that had been built so far away from the warm clime she was now visiting, so the youngsters filled their breaker at a spring near the cottage and led the way to the beach where they had landed. It was quite a long walk, but the old native tramped it as sturdily as the young men themselves. The “Gazelle” lay swinging idly at her anchor; a sight to make her owner’s heart glad.
The old man seemed much pleased with the yacht, and complimented her builder. Then he talked about boats in general, displaying such a knowledge of vessels of all kinds that Kenneth’s curiosity finally overcame him, and he asked if their host would not tell him some incident that they might put down in the log in remembrance of the visit—hoping that he might in some way reveal his history.
“Well, boys, how old should you say I am?” He looked quizzically from one to the other. Frank guessed eighty; Kenneth eighty-five, and he was afraid he was stretching it.
“Well,” said he, “my name is John Gomez, and if I live till Christmas—as I hope I shall—I’ll be a hundred and twenty-three.”
Frank and Kenneth could do nothing but gaze at him open-mouthed. “Holy smoke!” at last ejaculated Frank.
“Now, there’s something to put down in your log,” said John Gomez. “Good luck to you.”
He shook the boys’ hands with a hearty grip, and went off.
“Well,” said Frank, as he and Kenneth got aboard “His Nibs” and pushed off, “a hundred and twenty-three, think of it! I bet that old chap has a history.”
And he had.