“Great difference between the night and day,” remarked Aleck.
“You bet—it’s darker,” said Tom, with a grin.
“If I weren’t jealous of such brilliant conversation, I’d help it along by asking which is darker?” observed Fred Winter. “Say, you chaps certainly do waste a lot of words over nothing.”
“Correct,” put in Joe, “and here’s another sample. Kind o’ queer-looking on the river—pretty black, at times, I guess. Never struck me before how hard it must be to pilot a big steamer on a pitch dark night.”
“Don’t think I should care to try it,” said Fred, with a slight shiver.
A bit out, the waves were choppy, and the dory at the stern bobbed merrily up and down. The moon played hide-and-seek with the silver-edged clouds, and threw a strange, weird light over the landscape.
“Guess I’ll tell you that story I heard now, fellows,” remarked Aleck Hunt. “Say, Jack, you know Joe Archer, the chap who played short-stop on our baseball team—well——”
“Hello, what’s the matter?” interrupted Jack.
The pulsations of the motor had suddenly ceased.