“Did you know we were anchored inside the line?” he said. Larry stood up to take his bearings. “Why, so we are,” with evident annoyance, for Larry prided himself on his observance of harbor rules.
“And I guess we've done it before,” added Dick; “the boy from the island there said it would be the last time we'd be 'lowed to do it.”
“And it ought to be,” for Larry was thoroughly out of patience with himself; “we'll show 'em we meant to obey orders anyway. Let go her anchor, Dick,” and then in a moment the big sail, that had been furled for the night, was spread to the wind once more, and the Courage Masterson was running out upon the bay, that she might swing in again and anchor at the proper distance from the island.
“What's up, I wonder,” said Sylvia, starting to her feet when she felt the lighter in motion. “Oh, I know; Dick's told Larry we were anchored too near,” and she settled down again in the most comfortable position imaginable, on the rug beside Courage.
“Tell me, Sylvia, what is your other name?” Courage asked after a little pause; “I've been meaning to ask you this ever so long. I think it was on the medal, but I do not remember it.”
“Sylvester,” said Sylvia complacently, smoothing out her gingham apron. “Sylvy Sylvester; dose two names hitch togedder putty tol'ble, don't dey, Miss Courage?”
“Yes, they go beautifully together; that's why you're named Sylvia, of course.”