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It's comin' in heavy puffs now, and the sky is cloudin' up some. Two or three times Mr. Robert heads the Pyxie up into it and debates about takin' in the mainsail. Then he decides it would be better to square off and make for some cove he knows of on the north shore of Long Island. So we let out the sheet a bit more and go plungin' along.
"Go aboard what, I'd like to know?" speaks up Marjorie. "Why, the Pyxie," says he. "See, there she is anchored off well, what the deuce! Pardon me for a moment." With that he steps over to a six-foot megaphone swung from the club veranda and proceeds to boom out a few remarks. "Pyxie ahoy! Hey, there! On board the Pyxie!" he roars.
No response from the Pyxie, and just as he's startin' to repeat the performance up strolls one of the float tenders and hands him a note which soon has him gaspy and pink in the ears. It's from his fool captain, explainin' how that rich uncle of his in Providence had been taken very bad again and how he had to go on at once. The message is dated last Wednesday. Course, there's nothing for Mr.
"I'm sure I don't know what that means," says she; "but I am quite ready to try." "Oh, let's!" says Vee, clappin' her hands. "I can help." "And Ferdie is a splendid sailor," chimes in. Marjorie. "He's crossed a dozen times." "Then we're off," says Mr. Robert. And inside of ten minutes the club launch has landed us, bag and baggage, on the Pyxie.
But by the time the girls appeared we had yanked up all the sails that was handy, and the Pyxie was slanted over, just scootin' through the choppy water gay and careless, like she was glad to be tied loose. "Isn't this glorious?" exclaims Miss Hampton, steadying herself on the high side and glancin' admirin' up at the white sails stretched tight as drumheads. I expect that should have been Mr.
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