He saw the laughing face of his brother, and guessed what had happened.
"I thought this was a rowing race, not a splashing contest!" he cried good-naturedly.
"It's both," was the answer. Then, though Frank kept on vigorously swinging the oars, Andy paused, rested on the ashen blades, and, holding the handles of both under his left palm for a moment, he pointed out to sea with his right hand, and cried:
"Look! What's that out there, Frank?"
"Oh, ho! No you don't! You don't catch me that way—pretending to show me a sea serpent!" objected the older lad.
"No, really, there's something there—something big and humpy—it's moving, too! Don't you see it? Look, right in line with the Eastern Spit Lighthouse! See!"
Andy stood up in his boat, skillfully balancing himself against the rolling swell, and pointed out to sea. His manner was so earnest that, in spite of the many times he had joked with his brother, Frank ceased rowing and peered to where the extended finger of the younger lad indicated something unusual.
"Smoked star fish! You're right!" agreed Frank, forgetting all about the race now, and standing up in his craft, in order to get a better view.
"What is it?" cried Andy. "A floating wreck?"
"That's no wreck," declared Frank.