“Well, r-a-t-h-e-r,” cried Tommy—“eh, Bob?”
Bob nodded.
“Sure thing. It will give us a good chance to see a bit of New York. Where is the ‘Gray Gull,’ Jack?”
“Moored on the Harlem River. Hurray! I’ll call up Joe Preston just as soon as you’ve told me a bit about yourselves. Now, somebody, please fire away.”
The “somebody” happened to be Bob Somers, and, as he related modestly the story of their many adventures, Jack Lyons’ eyes opened wider with interest and enthusiasm.
“Great Scott; what corking times! Don’t I wish I’d been along. I must tell Joe you’re here.” And Jack sprang to the side of his desk, where the boys noticed a telephone.
“Talk about that for a great scheme,” remarked Tom.
“Talk through it for a greater,” returned Jack. “Hello, hello—yes, that’s the number. Hello, Joe Preston! Not Joe! Well, won’t you please tell him that Jack Lyons is at the ’phone?”
“He’s at home, fellows.” Jack looked up; then turned toward the instrument again. “Hello, Joe! Say, old boy, the Rambler chaps are here; honest—no joke about it. We’re going right out to see the ‘Gray Gull.’ Can you meet us there? Good! Yes; maybe they’ll take the trip with us. Wouldn’t that be jolly! You pick up Aleck and Fred. Race you? Sure! Good-bye.”
“Fellows, you’ll meet the whole bunch,” laughed Jack, as he hung up the receiver. “Now, I’ll explain how we happened to get hold of the house-boat. A client of dad’s, who went out west, turned it over to him in part payment for his services. If dad didn’t know what to do with the ‘Gray Gull,’ I did; and the way Joe, Aleck and Fred jumped at the chance to go on a cruise would have made you laugh.”