“In that case, I’ll take you direct to Milwaukee, Judge,” announced the skipper, suddenly, much to Charlie Blake’s astonishment and disgust.
The jurist immediately protested that he couldn’t think of such a thing; but Uncle Ralph, with a smile, tersely ordered the yacht’s course to be changed.
“The time means practically nothing to me, Judge, while it may be of great advantage to you,” he said.
The “Fearless” was pitching heavily. Charlie Blake looked at the succession of waves following each other ceaselessly across the broad expanse, at whitecaps always forming, and at others always on the point of dissolving themselves back into the gray, somber element. The heaving, tumbling flood and the dark, ragged storm-clouds scudding low, apparently dipping down at the blurred horizon line to meet the water, made an impressive spectacle. But certain distressing symptoms prevented Blake from thoroughly enjoying it.
He determined, however, not to let Bob Somers see how badly he was affected. “He’ll think I’m a quitter,” he mused.
His mind fully occupied, Blake only heard the conversation going on around him as a confused jumble of words.
“I do wonder how long it will be before we get there?” he murmured, impatiently.
Time, to him at least, seemed to drag out interminably. But, at length, to his great joy, Uncle Ralph spoke up.
“The lighthouse at the entrance to the harbor of Milwaukee, boys,” he said.
“Thank goodness!” came from Charlie Blake. Then, sotto voce, he added, “No more motor yacht motoring for me.”