"You're twenty minutes late," he informed them, as he cast off from the landing, "but I didn't start until I heard you coming. The Pettasantuck has a voice like the very prince—or princess—of all sea-monsters. We heard her whoop before she passed Barclay Neck."
"How's Mudder?" Garth asked.
"Oh, she's a good deal better now," said Jim, "but we've both been very lonely and sad. I like to have you sit so close beside me, old man," he added, "but I'm afraid the tiller will hit you on the nose.”
Faintly, through the mist, Silver Shoal Light took form and grew more and more clear—the line of foam about the rock, the Cymba slowly circling her moorings, the green shutters against the white-walled house, the bright splash of color that marked the geraniums in the "informal garden." Some one in a blue dress came to the open door and stood looking out. Garth gave an exultant shout, and his father seized him by the sleeve of his coat.
"Wait! Wait a bit!" said Jim. "Never try to get out of a boat until she's less than fifty feet away from shore. Do you think you can sit still while I come in, or shall I have to lash you to the mast with the peak halyard?"
