Bob laughingly settled the loud wrangle which began.
"Each one of you chaps grab something," he commanded. "Come on, fellows."
Armed with their guns, the seven walked briskly to the street, a wide thoroughfare running along the water-front, with low buildings and an occasional sleepy-looking warehouse.
There were but few people about. A goat, defiantly tossing its head, blocked the way, so the boys laughingly walked around it.
Soon the street rose steeply, winding close to the edge of a hill, where they stopped a moment to look at the waves breaking against its base. A hundred yards further along, a picturesque wooden bridge spanned a small stream which came into view from behind a mass of tumble-down shacks.
Then they reached a level stretch bordered on both sides by tall trees. A long pier with a glaring white sign indicating its use was soon after sighted.
"By Jove, if he isn't actually there, Tim!" cried Jack, with a chuckle.
"Who—who—Uncle Stanley?" exclaimed Tim.
"No; the lazy chap I spoke about. And there's another one, besides."
"Then let's interview the two who typify the universal custom," laughed Dave.