“Those two brave boys, too,” said Effie, a moment later. “I scarcely know how we are to thank them.”
“And Zeb and his friends,” began George Brayton, but that young worthy interrupted him with:
“No thanks, please, Mr. Brayton. It’s an every-day matter with us. We get our pocket money by it. If the man’s drowned we charge only a dime, but if we get him ashore alive, it’s twenty-five cents. We’ve done lots of harm that way.”
“Harm?” exclaimed Sibyl.
“Yes, indeed,” said Zeb, gravely, “but then it’s so hard to decide, on the spur of the moment, whether we ought to let a man drown or not. I fear we are influenced too much by the odd fifteen cents.”
Worn out as he was by his long struggle in the water, Brayton was forced to laugh at Zeb’s way of avoiding unwelcome gratitude, and Effie Dryer’s face half lost the expression of deep, sweet thoughtfulness it had worn ever since she came out of the water. As for Sibyl, she was intently watching Bar and Val at their work, which was now nearly completed.
In a few moments the Sibyl was once more in sailing trim and the picnic party could abandon the slow safety of the punt and start for home.