With that he steps over to a six-foot megaphone swung from the club veranda and proceeds to boom out a few remarks.
"Pyxie ahoy! Hey, there! On board the Pyxie!" he roars.
No response from the Pyxie, and just as he's startin' to repeat the performance up strolls one of the float tenders and hands him a note which soon has him gaspy and pink in the ears. It's from his fool captain, explainin' how that rich uncle of his in Providence had been taken very bad again and how he had to go on at once. The message is dated last Wednesday. Course, there's nothing for Mr. Robert to do but tell the crowd just how the case stands.
"How absurd—just an uncle!" pouts Marjorie. "Now we can't go cruising at all, and—and I have three pairs of perfectly dear deck shoes that I wanted to wear!"
"Really!" says Mr. Robert. "Then we'll go anyway; that is, if you'll all agree to ship as a Corinthian crew. What do you say?" And he glances doubtful at Miss Hampton.
"I'm sure I don't know what that means," says she; "but I am quite ready to try."
"Oh, let's!" says Vee, clappin' her hands. "I can help."
"And Ferdie is a splendid sailor," chimes in. Marjorie. "He's crossed a dozen times."
"Then we're off," says Mr. Robert.
And inside of ten minutes the club launch has landed us, bag and baggage, on the Pyxie.