“Now the first word. Try to make it out yourself.”
Dick shrugged his shoulders, for it was rather a jump to a word of three syllables, but success at last crowned his efforts. “National Docks!” he exclaimed, with the delight of unaided discovery, feeling as though the attainment had added a good square inch to his height. Then came another sign with the one word Storage, but that was easy, for “Prentice Stores” had been achieved the day before off the Brooklyn warehouses, and it was only a step from one word to the other. Finally, when there were no new signs to conquer, Courage began a sort of review, from memory, of all they had been over. In the midst of it Sylvia suddenly ran to the side of the boat, arched one black hand over her eyes that she might see the more clearly, and then flew back again.
“Dat horrid statue boy is comin',” she cried excitedly; “I thought it looked like him, an' if onct he gets a foot on dis boat he'll keep comin', he will; I knowed him.”
“I don't see that you can help it, though,” laughed Courage; “you can't tell him that we just don't want to have anything to do with him.”
Sylvia looked perplexed, but only for a moment; then, indulging in one of those remarkable pirouettes with which she was accustomed to announce the advent of a happy thought, she ran back again to the boat's edge.
Meanwhile every dip of the oars was bringing the objectionable boy nearer, and a horrid boy he was, if one may be permitted to speak quite honestly. Dick and Sylvia had made his undesirable acquaintance one evening when Larry had sent them to the island to learn the right time. He was the son of one of the men employed to care for the statue, and was, alas! every whit as disagreeable in manners as in looks, which is not to put the case mildly.
“Hello, Miss Woolly-head!” he called, bringing his boat to the lighter's side, and tossing a rope aboard, which Miss Woolly-head was supposed to catch, but didn't, so that the boat veered off again.
“What's the name of your little missus?” called the boy, apparently not in the least nonplussed by his rather chilling reception. The knowledge that Sylvia had a little “missus” had been obtained by means of several leading questions which had characterized the young gentleman's first interview with Sylvia and Dick, and which they had regarded as the very epitome of rudeness.
“Dis yere lighter is called for my missus,” said Sylvia, “so you kin jes' read her name dere on de do' plate,” pointing to the lettering at the bow of the boat, “an den again, mebbe you can't,” she chuckled.
It looked as though the statue boy “couldn't,” for he did not so much as glance toward the bow, as he added, “Well, it's your missus I want to see, and not you, you little black pickaninny.”