A young sailor was climbing up a ladder. They watched his figure loom against the sky, as he mounted to a dizzy height on the insecure-looking rope ladder. At times, he seemed to be leaning backward.
"Gee; if he should slip!" murmured Dick, apprehensively.
"Oh, I guess he's too used to the business for that," assured Bob.
But all gave a sigh of relief when, after a few moments' work, the sailor descended.
"Hello—hello, fellows!" came a hail from the stern. It was Tim Lovell, who had wandered away. "Hello; a steamboat comin'—a real one!"
"Silly dub," said Jack. "Who ever heard of an unreal one? Wonder if it's life-size? Ask Tom if it's a nautical boat. Get out o' my way, Sam Randall."
The boys struggled aft as fast as the narrow passage would permit, receiving in their haste a number of unpleasant bumps and bangs.
They found Tim standing close to the steersman, gazing one moment at the foaming, bubbling wake, the next toward a distant boat over which hovered a wreath of brownish smoke.
"See!" Tim pointed. "Bet it's a whopper. Don't give Jacky your glass, Bob. Oh, ginger—that settles it!"
Jack had rudely snatched the instrument, and, planting his feet hard, steadied himself against the cabin roof.