“It’s Joe Preston!” yelled Jack; “here he comes, with the others. Oh, Joe—here we are, old chap. Hello!”
A stamping of feet on the wharf and the sound of lusty voices which had called forth this outburst was followed by several yells of greeting. Then the “Gray Gull” was jarred from stem to stern by three distinct and separate shocks.
“A waterquake,” grinned Tommy. “Yes, they’re here, all right.”
“Beat us, after all, you old scamp.”
A rather short and chunky, dark-haired lad uttered these words, as he stepped inside, his movements materially assisted by a vigorous push from behind.
“Joe Preston, fellows,” announced Jack.
Two other lads were now standing inside the door. The introductions which followed were of a most informal kind. Aleck Hunt was a square-shouldered, blue-eyed boy, while Fred Winter, the tallest of the trio, looked quite solemn and studious, and his appearance indicated his general character.
There was a great amount of noise and confusion in the “Gray Gull’s” cabin until all had found places.
“Here’s where Somers and Winter meet,” gurgled Jack.
“Not bad—for you,” laughed Joe. “Say, Ramblers, Jack’s been talking an awful lot about you lately. Let’s hear——”