she’s all that,” responded his brother, “and we’ll try her paces to-morrow morning.”
“Not if she’s like all the other dories I’ve had anything to do with,” answered Dick. “She’s been out of water ever since she left her cradle, and it’ll take some time for her to soak up.”
“Oh, of course she’ll leak a little, even after a night in the water,” said Cal, with his peculiar drawl which always made whatever he said sound about equally like a mocking joke and the profoundest philosophy. “But who minds getting his feet wet in warm salt water?”
“Leak a little?” responded Dick; “leak a little? Why, she’ll fill herself half full within five minutes after we shove her in, and if we get into her to-morrow morning the other half will follow suit. It’ll take two days at least to make her seams tight.”
“Why didn’t the caulkers put more oakum into her seams, then?” queried Tom, whose acquaintance with boats was very scant. “I should think they’d jam and cram every seam so full that the boat would be water tight from the first.”
“Perhaps they would,” languidly drawled Cal, “if they knew no more about such things than you do, Tom.”
“How much do you know, Cal?” sharply asked the other.
“Oh, not much – not half or a quarter as much as Dick does. But a part of the little that I know is the fact that when you wet a dry, white cedar board it swells, and the further fact that when you soak dry oakum in water, it swells a great deal more. It is my conviction that if a boat were caulked to water tightness while she was dry and then put into the water, the swelling would warp and split and twist her into a very fair imitation of a tall silk hat after a crazy mule has danced the highland fling upon it.”
“Oh, I see, of course. But will she be really tight after she swells up?”
“As tight as a drum. But we’ll take some oakum along, and a caulking tool or two, and a pot of white lead, so that if she gets a jolt of any kind and springs a leak we can haul her out and repair damages. We’ll take a little pot of paint, too, in one of the lockers.”
“There’ll be time enough after supper,” interrupted Larry, “to discuss everything like that, and we must be prompt at supper, too, for you know father is to leave for the North to-night to meet mother on Cape Cod and his ship sails at midnight. So get hold of the boat, every fellow of you, and let’s shove her in.”
The launching was done within a minute or two, and after that the dory rocked herself to sleep – that’s what Cal said.
“She’s certainly a beauty,” said Dick Wentworth. “And of course she’s better finished and finer every way than any dory I ever saw. You know, Tom, dories up north are rough fishing boats. This one is finished like a yacht, and – ”
“Oh, she’s hunky dory,” answered Tom, lapsing into slang.
“That’s what we’ll name her, then,” drawled Cal. “She’s certainly ‘hunky’ and she’s a dory, and if that doesn’t make her the Hunkydory, I’d very much like to know what s-o-x spells.”
There was a little laugh all round. As the incoming water floated the bottom boards, the name of the boat was unanimously adopted, and after another admiring look at her, the four hurried away to supper. On the way Dick explained to Tom that a dory is built for sailing or rowing in rough seas, and running ashore through the surf on shelving beaches.
“That accounts for the peculiar shape of her narrow, flat bottom, her heavy overhang at bow and stern, her widely sloping sides, and for the still odder shape and set of her centre board and rudder. She can come head-on to a beach, and as she glides up the sloping sand it shuts up her centre board and lifts her rudder out of its sockets without the least danger of injuring either. In the water a dory is as nervous as a schoolgirl in a thunder storm. The least wind pressure on her sails or the least shifting of her passengers or cargo, sends her heeling over almost to her beam ends, but she is very hard to capsize, because her gunwales are so built out that they act as bilge keels.”
“I’d understand all that a good deal better,” answered Tom, laughing, “if I had the smallest notion what the words mean. I have a vague idea that I know what a rudder is, but when you talk of centre boards, overhangs, gunwales, and bilge keels, you tow me out beyond my depth.”
“Never mind,” said Cal. “Wait till we get you out on the water, you land lubber, and then Dick can give you a rudimentary course of instruction in nautical nomenclature. Just now there is neither time nor occasion to think about anything but the broiled spring chickens and plates full of rice that we’re to have for supper, with a casual reflection upon the okra, the green peas and the sliced tomatoes that will escort them into our presence.”
In an aside to Dick Wentworth – but spoken so that all could hear – Tom said:
“I don’t believe Cal can help talking that way. I think if he were drowning he’d put his cries of ‘help’ into elaborate sentences.”
“Certainly, I should do precisely that,” answered Cal. “Why not? Our thoughts are the children of our brains, and I think enough of my brain-children to dress them as well as I can.”
In part, Cal’s explanation was correct enough. But his habit of elaborate speech was, in fact, also meant to be mildly humorous. This was especially so when he deliberately overdressed his brain-children in ponderous words and stilted phrases.
They were at the Rutledge mansion by this time, however, and further chatter was cut off by a negro servant’s announcement that “Supper’s ready an’ yo’ fathah’s a waitin’.”
II
THE STORY OF QUASI
Major Rutledge entertained the boys at supper with accounts of his own experiences along the coast during the war, and incidentally gave them a good deal of detailed information likely to be useful to them in their journeyings. But he gave them no instructions and no cautions. He firmly believed that youths of their age and intelligence ought to know how to take care of themselves, and that if they did not it was high time for them to learn in the school of experience. He knew these to be courageous boys, manly, self-reliant, intelligent, and tactful. He was, therefore, disposed to leave them to their own devices, trusting to their wits to meet any emergencies that might arise.
One bit of assistance of great value he did give them, namely, a complete set of coast charts, prepared by the government officials at Washington.
“You see,” he explained to the two visitors, “this is a very low-lying coast, interlaced by a tangled network of rivers, creeks, inlets, bayous, and the like, so that in many places it is difficult even for persons intimately familiar with its intricacies to find their way. My boys know the geography of it fairly well, but you’ll find they will have frequent need to consult the charts. I’ve had them encased in water-tight tin receptacles.”
“May I ask a question?” interjected Tom Garnett, as he minutely scanned one of the charts.
“Certainly, as many as you like.”
“What do those little figures mean that are dotted thickly all over the sheets?”
“They show the depth of water at every spot, at mean high tide. You’ll find them useful – particularly in making short cuts. You see, Tom, many of the narrowest of our creeks are very deep, and many broad bays very shallow in places. Besides, there are mud banks
