“You never expected to see a bunch of Indians like this, hey, Phil?” he asked.
“Naw—I—I sure didn’t,” agreed Phil, as he diffidently backed away.
“Here now, don’t you run off. Give us a song.”
“Let Phil alone,” commanded Uncle Ralph. “Singing isn’t his forte. He’s better at polishing brass.”
“Clifton has an awful lot that needs attention,” mumbled Victor.
“Oh, I say, fellows, this isn’t seeing the yacht,” broke in Bob.
“Let the inspection begin at once,” returned Captain Bunderley, with a smile.
They followed him to the companionway and then down into the dining saloon.
Standing in the cozy interior the boys with the exception of Victor voiced their enthusiasm in words that brought forth chuckles of satisfaction from the old salt’s lips.
Never did woodwork, or door-knobs, or furnishings appear more spotlessly clean than those revealed by the cold gray rays streaming through the open port-holes.