warped out of the slip and had started up the river. But Roy’s parents and Dick’s father had not been the only spectators, and many and sarcastic had been the comments from the assembled wharf hands and loiterers. But the boys hadn’t cared. They had been far too excited and busy. The Slow Poke didn’t answer very readily to her helm, and as a result Chub, gallantly assisted by Roy, had run into the end of a pier and narrowly escaped colliding with a lighter.
At four o’clock Chub announced that the Slow Poke had accomplished about four miles. They were then off what Chub called “picturesque Tubby Hook.” Roy had to see the name on the chart before he would believe in the existence of any such place.
“What I want to know,” said Dick, who had again momentarily separated himself from the engine, “is where we’re going to lie up for the night.”
“Well, there’s no hurry,” said Roy. “By six we ought to be—where, Chub?” Chub did some lightning calculating.
“At Yonkers.”
