“You mustn’t think I didn’t know how to spell your name. That was all Puff Evans’s fault.”
“Then you really did name your boat after me?” asked Sibyl.
“Of course I did,” said Bar. “You are the only Sibyl I ever knew.”
“It was very kind of you,” she answered, gently; “and I think she is a beautiful little boat.”
There was not a prouder fellow on or about Skanigo Lake at that moment, than Mr. Barnaby Vernon.
That sort of thing could not last forever, though it might be ever so pleasant, and Val Manning’s self-imposed watch at the shore was shortly terminated.
It was not quite so warm or sunny just now, and if Puff Evans had been within speaking distance, it is very likely he would have spoken a word of warning, but the party in the boat had not the least idea in the world that any danger to them could be lurking among the clouds and hills.
Perhaps there was not, indeed, for their only real danger was in their own ignorance and sense of security.
“Boys,” Zeb Fuller had remarked a few minutes before, “there’s a squall coming. We’d better pull up the lake. City folks are all fools, you know, and there’s no telling what may happen to ’em.”
Good for Zeb, only he came very near being too late, in spite of his wise forethought.