“Name?” repeated Bar, as the color began to climb up across his face.
“There it is,” exclaimed Effie, “painted on the stern. Can’t you read? S-i-b-b-l-e, Sibble. Why, what a queer name. Did Puff name her?”
“I should say he had,” exclaimed George Brayton, as he burst into a roar of laughter. “Don’t you see, Sibyl? She’s named after you. Only a few letters out of the way, that’s all.”
Poor Bar!
Puff was attending to something else just then, and Val Manning stood just where he could poke his elbow into Bar’s ribs without being noticed.
As for Sibyl Brayton, she did not seem to see where the fun came in, but stepped right forward into the boat, like a brave and good girl as she was. Even Effie Dryer followed her with a face that was all one twinkle, but that did not let a single laugh get loose.
There was need of at least one term at the Academy for Puff Evans, that was clear, and Bar was glad enough to busy himself with the fishing-tackle.
His intended compliment had become a thing to be hidden from Zebedee Fuller, lest it should be carved on half the loose boards of Ogleport.
There were only five of them, and the trim little craft did not seem to care a fig for a lighter load, as she danced away on the blue waves of Skanigo.
George Brayton himself was a very good hand with a boat and he handled the graceful little Sibyl in a way that made her passengers forget how very badly her name had been spelled for her.