every good thing that the larder contained on the table up under the striped awning. They had stopped the headlong career of the Slow Poke where a murmuring grove of trees came down and leaned over the water as though to watch their green finery mirrored back to them from the calm surface. They had snubbed the boat’s bow close to shore, so that half the upper deck was in the cool shadow, and at that end they had placed the table. Harry and Snip had jumped ashore and brought back sprays of leaves for the adornment of the festal board and Roy had ruthlessly snipped a dozen big red blooms from the geraniums in the boxes. Dinner was late, but no one minded, not even the doctor, for Ferry Hill was less than fifteen miles away, and three hours more would bring them there.
The doctor was called on for a speech when the dessert was brought on, and responded eloquently, finally toasting his hosts in a brimming glass of “vin de Cold Spring.” Chub responded, “on behalf of himself and his crew, who, being a motley lot hailing from many countries, were unable to speak the English.” The crew groaned loudly at this, but later forgave the remark and
