"The 'Fearless,'" read Jim. "Makes me think of the high school ball nine. They're fearless before defeat."
"Or fearless afterward—in this case, the same thing," came from Aleck Parks.
"If Roycroft had any sand he'd be on the team. He seems to be as soft as his muscles are hard. Well, I declare, that yacht is coming inshore. Wonder who the lucky owner can be?"
"They must have spilled a few barrelsful of white paint on it. Hello! There's somebody getting ready to heave the anchor. Let's loaf around here, fellows, and see what happens."
The strange yacht was moored a bit further up-stream; and a few moments afterward the trio saw a small boat being lowered and three people take their places in it.
Luke Phelps' curiosity was stirred. He began scrambling down the steep bank to a stretch of flat shore which bordered the stream.
The yacht's dory had already pushed off, and, under the strokes of a muscular oarsman, was making steady progress toward a rude wharf. Long rippling lines spreading out from its bow caught brilliant gleams from golden and purplish clouds floating lazily above.
The boys walked fast, reaching the rickety pile of boards just as two occupants of the boat clambered upon them.
Phelps was immediately impressed with a strange dissimilarity in their appearance. One was a big burly man with a brown beard dressed in a yachting suit of blue; the other a slight lad attired in clothes of the finest texture, wearing a large checkered cap and a decidedly saucy grin.
"Looks as if he'd melt away in a rain storm," remarked Phelps, confidentially, to Aleck. "Got a peach of a complexion, hasn't he? Just the kind of a chap you have to talk gently to for fear o' hurting his feelings."