Taking two great hams, the two boys slung them on a pole stretched between them, and started back to the place where they had left “His Nibs.” The pieces of turtle meat, the guns, lantern, and bag of eggs made such a heavy load that they were glad enough when they reached the spot where the small boat had been left.
Arthur and Frank looked out over the water and saw the “Gazelle” swinging at anchor, glorified in the warm colors of the sunrise.
“What’s the matter with Ken?” Frank exclaimed, pointing with his gun barrel at the figure on the yacht’s deck, which waved and gestured frantically.
“He is pointing at something. What’s the matter with the chump? He is shouting.” Arthur stopped to listen. The faint sound of a voice came over the harbor, but they could not make out what it said.
“He is pointing.” Arthur was shading his eyes and looking intently. “What, in the name of common sense, is—By George, look at ‘His Nibs.’” Arthur was pointing now at the little boat, which, like a mischievous youngster, was bobbing airily about a short distance from shore.
“Jove! it’s well we came along when we did; that little tub would have been out to sea in a minute.”
As it was, Arthur had to swim for it, and only caught the truant after a long race. “The next time I leave you alone,” he said, as he pulled himself over the stern, “I am going to make you fast to a ten-ton anchor.”
It was a merry feast that the reunited three enjoyed that morning. Turtle steak, which Kenneth declared to be equal to porterhouse and much like it in flavor, was the pièce de résistance; but the talk and chaff were the garnishings that made the meal worth while.
“You have got to wash dishes, old man,” Kenneth said to his mate, when every vestige of the breakfast had disappeared, “while Frank and I get this old house-boat under way.”
“Gazelle, Gazelle,