“All hail to Old Ocean!” shouted the crew as the “Gazelle,” with a shake that was like the toss of the head, bounded into the embrace of the Atlantic’s long billows.
“Well, we did it!” cried the mate exultingly. “Sailed to the ocean.”
“And we will sail back, too,” added Frank.
“But we have a trick or two to turn yet.” Kenneth foresaw experiences before them during the long coast-wise trip.
The voyage up the Hawk Channel to Miami, on Biscayne Bay, seemed long only because of their short supply of food; and when they anchored off that southernmost town on the mainland of Florida, they were ready to tackle anything in the shape of eatables except oatmeal and cocoanuts.
For many, many days the boys had not been able to send word to their people in far off Michigan; nor had they heard from home. At Miami a big batch of mail awaited them; and they at once satisfied a hunger for home news and civilized food. Day by day the boys had added to their letters, until Uncle Sam received almost as much mail matter as he had brought.
For two days the boys enjoyed the comfort of a safe anchorage in a port, and all hands got a good rest, many good feeds, and a good hair-cut apiece. When their unkempt shaggy locks were shorn, the places protected from the sun showed white in contrast to their tanned skins.
“Arthur, you look like Barnum’s piebald boy,” said Frank, pointing a derisive finger at him.
“Well, you look as if you needed a good scrub. You started all right, apparently, but you must have got tired.”
“Every man his own hair brush,” said Ransom, running his fingers appreciatively through his stiff, closely cropped hair. “If I could only reach my feet with my head I would always have a shine.”