Four Afloat Part 25

"Our cat's name is Ben Hur," said Tom helpfully.

"But there were about half a dozen streets still left and they were in a fix until some one remembered that there were several canary birds in the town. So they used up the canaries and had d.i.c.kie Street and Fluff Street and Lovey-Dovey Street--"

"Oh, get out!" scoffed Tom.

"You shut up! I'm telling this. And so then everything was all right until they got to looking the map over very carefully and found that they had missed one of the princ.i.p.al thoroughfares, a fine, wide boulevard running from one side of the town to the other. Well, they were in a fix then, for they had to have another name and they'd used all the names up, as far as they could see. The Mayor of the town was a widower and for a while it looked as though he'd have to get married again so they could name the boulevard after his wife. But he didn't like the idea of it; said he'd resign from office first; and about that time the City Treasurer remembered that his youngest boy had a guinea pig for a pet. They said that was fine, and they took a vote on it and decided to name the boulevard after the guinea pig. Well, the City Treasurer didn't remember what his boy called the pig and so they sent for the boy. And when he came the Mayor asked him what he called his guinea pig. 'Piggy,' said the boy. 'But that will never do,' said the Mayor, 'haven't you a better name than that?' 'His name's Piggy,' said the boy. Well, they argued with him and argued with him, and pleaded and pleaded, the Mayor and all the Council, but it didn't do any good. And the City Treasurer told the boy he'd take him home and give him a whipping if he didn't change the guinea pig's name. But it didn't do any good, for the boy said the guinea pig's name was 'Piggy,' always had been 'Piggy' and couldn't be anything else. So if you go out there now you'll find that the finest street in the city is called Piggy Boulevard."

"That's a likely yarn!" laughed Bob.

"Well, that's the way it was told to me," answered Dan gravely.

"Where did you say the place is?" asked Tom.

"Oh, out in Illinois somewhere; near Chicago, I think."

"More likely it was right in your own State," Tom retorted warmly.

"Now, don't you two get to sc.r.a.pping about your old villages," said Bob.

"Neither one of them is worth living in. Why don't you live in Portland?

Then you won't feel ashamed of your town."

"Huh!" jeered Tom. "Portland! S'pose I did live there and some one asked me what place I was from. 'Portland,' I'd say. 'Oh! Maine or Oregon?'

they'd ask. No, sir, I don't want a city I have to explain. There's only one Chicago."

"That's one good feature of it," said Dan.

"Is that su-su-so?" began Tom pugnaciously. But Nelson intervened.

"You're wrong about Portland, Tommy," he said. "They wouldn't ask you 'Maine or Oregon'; they'd say 'Cement or salmon?'"

"We don't make Portland cement in my town," said Bob disgustedly.

"Of course they don't," Dan agreed. "Portland is famous only as having been the birthplace of Henry Longworth Wadsfellow and of Robert Wade Hethington."

"There's another life-saving station, Tommy," said Nelson. "What's its name?"

"Pamet River. Now, there's a fool name; Pamet. But I suppose they got crazy in the head like a fish when they got this far. I'll bet the rest of the names are terrors."

"I heard that years and years ago all this part of the Cape was thick forest," observed Bob.

"Oh, you hear funny things," said Dan.

"Fact, though," Bob a.s.serted.

"Well, a few trees would help some now," said Nelson. "It's a lonely looking stretch, isn't it? They say the State pays out thousands of dollars every year planting beach gra.s.s along here."

"What for?" asked Tom suspiciously.

"To hold the sand," Nelson replied. "The wind and the ocean play hob with the coast along here."

"What's that ahead there on the sh.o.r.e?" asked Bob, pointing.

"Looks like-Oh, I know! It's the wireless-telegraph station," answered Tom. "That's Wellfleet."

"Let's get them to report us," suggested Dan. "'Pa.s.sed South, launch _Vagabond_, Captain Tilford; all well except the cook who is suffering with stomach ache from too much candy.'"

"First thing I heard this morning," said Nelson, "was Tommy chewing that peanut taffy stuff he bought. I'll bet his bunk is full of it."

"I don't know about the bunk," said Bob dryly, "but I'll bet that Tommy is."

At a little after two they reached Pollock Rip, pa.s.sed within two hundred yards of Shovelful Light-s.h.i.+p and bore southwest around the lower corner of the Cape. Shoals were numerous and the water decidedly unquiet. The _Vagabond_ plunged and kicked, rolled and tossed until Handkerchief Light-s.h.i.+p had been left to port. Southward Nantucket lay stretched upon the water, and to the southwest the hills of Martha's Vineyard rose blue and hazy from the sea. There was much to see now, for Nantucket Sound was well dotted with sails, while here and there smoke streamers proclaimed the presence of steamboats. One of these, an excursion boat well loaded with pa.s.sengers, pa.s.sed close to starboard of them and they spent several moments in politely answering with the whistle the fluttering handkerchiefs and waving hats. It was nearly half-past five when the _Vagabond_, with over eighty-five miles to her credit since morning, swung around East Chop Light, chugged into Vineyard Haven Harbor and dropped her anchor off the steams.h.i.+p wharf.

"To-day's cruise," said Nelson, while they were sprucing up for an evening ash.o.r.e, "goes to show the difference between poor gasoline and good gasoline. I'd like to fill a launch up with some of those Standard Oil people, put some of that Sanstable gasoline in her tank and set her fifty miles offsh.o.r.e; that's what I'd like to do!"

They walked over to Cottage City and had dinner-and oh, didn't it taste good!-at a big hotel, returning to the launch at nine o'clock through a sweet-scented summer night and tumbling into bed as soon as their sleepy bodies allowed.

CHAPTER XIV-IN WHICH TOM DISAPPEARS FROM SIGHT

When Bob awoke the next morning it was to a gray world. The open ports were rimmed with tiny drops of moisture and the mist swirled in like films of smoke. He got out of bed, traversed the cabin, thrust open the hatch and put his head out of doors. The morning was warm and still, so still that the voice of some one on the wharf hundreds of feet away sounded close at hand, so still that the lapping of the water against the hull, usually unnoted, seemed a veritable clamor. The deck, c.o.c.kpit floor, cabin roof, all surfaces were covered with miniature pools, and Bob's hands, clasping the doorway, came away wringing wet.

There was nothing to be seen in any direction, save that now and then, as the mist momentarily lessened, the upper part of the mast and rigging of a sloop moored some thirty feet away from the _Vagabond_ became dimly visible. It was as though some mischievous giant had in the night, with a sweep of his hand, sponged everything out of existence, everything save the _Vagabond_ and the little fog-rimmed pool of water in which she sat. It was wonderful and uncanny. It was also very damp, and Bob, standing at the cabin entrance, gazing blankly about him, felt the tiny particles of moisture, blown on a light southwest breath from the ocean, settling on his face and damping his pyjamas until they began to cling to him. He beat a retreat to the cabin, drawing the doors closed behind him, and proceeded to awaken his companions by the simple expedient of pulling the bedclothes off them.

"Get up and look at the fog," he commanded. "It's all over the shop and so thick you can cut it with a knife-any knife, even Dan's!"

"That's all right," muttered Tom, striving to keep warm by bringing his knees up to his chin, "you cut me a slice, Bob, and toast it lightly on both sides."

"Want any b.u.t.ter?" asked Bob solicitously.

"There isn't any," answered Tom sleepily.

"Isn't any?" cried Dan, waking up very suddenly. "What the d.i.c.kens are we going to do for breakfast?"

"There's some lard," murmured Tom.

Dan leaped out of his berth and rolled Tom onto the floor.

"Here, you! Are you telling the truth? Isn't there really any b.u.t.ter for breakfast?"

"Not a bit," answered Tom cheerfully. "We ran out of it yesterday noon and I forgot to get any last night. b.u.t.ter's very unhealthy, though, Dan; it gives a fellow boils. I read in a paper just the other day that we eat too much b.u.t.ter and grease. We really oughtn't, you know."

"I vote we make Tommy go and get some," said Nelson, yawning and sitting up on the edge of his berth.

"Oh, I'll go," replied Tom, climbing to his feet, "if you think you must have it. It is bad for you, though, honest! Look at Dan's complexion already! It's awful! For his sake, Nel, supposing we leave b.u.t.ter out for a few days."

"My complexion!" jeered Dan. "Look at your own, Tommy!"