“Will you?” inquired Walter, his hazel eyes snapping at the prospect of this new continent of knowledge,—the signal department of the life saving service.
“Sartin. Give you a hint now. For instance, we have a pennant, a triangular flag, blue, with a white ball in it; and if I h’ist it, it would mean ‘no’ to some question asked by a vessel off shore signaling to me. Or, s’posin’ I h’isted a white pennant with a red ball. That would mean ‘yes.’”
Walter desired to overhaul that unpretending box at once, but he knew he must return to the store; and he only remarked, “I would like to see all those signals out sometime.”
“I guess you can without any doubt. You take a good deal of interest in our station, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. It is something entirely new to me.”
“You would make a pretty good surfman,” said Tom, glancing approvingly at Walter’s compact frame. “Woodbury Elliott says you row a pretty good stroke.”
“Oh! That his name? I came in his boat from the Crescent the other night.”
“Yes,” said Tom deliberately, looking at Walter’s frame as if he were a recruiting officer examining the physical points of a candidate for the ranks of Uncle Sam’s army. “I think, I think—you would do.”
Walter laughed. “I guess I must be a storekeeper. However, I am pleased if you think I have strength enough for a surfman.”
Tom now turned away, and with his glass swept the misty horizon again.