you'll get in again." He gripped the young man's hand.
"Garth's going, too, isn't he?" Steve asked, as they began to move toward the landing.
"Now, really!" Elspeth protested.
"Of course he is!" Steve cried. "I've got him, anyhow, so you can't get him away. Why, it's not eight bells yet! And look what a fine night for rowing around. This is a kind of an occasion, I reckon."
"It seems to be," Elspeth agreed. "I'm glad we don't have ensigns around every day, or there'd be no discipline in this lighthouse!"
The boat slid deliciously over the long oily swell, and the oars splashed a weird trail of phosphorescence at every stroke. The lights of the Billington were doubled with a sharp brightness on the inky water, and their wavering reflections reached halfway to the skiff in clear-cut lines and patches of gold. Steve pulled what he called a "regular cutter stroke" and sang Annapolis songs. As they approached the Billington, he stopped in the middle of a verse.
"I'd better cut it out," he said, "or I'll be getting a reprimand, or something."
"What's that?"' cried Garth suddenly, pointing.
