Behold, then, the Jolly Roger proceeding, as Chub phrased it, “under her own sail” up the Hudson River in the middle of a glorious July afternoon. There was a fresh little breeze quartering down the river and the surface of the broad stream was merry with whitecaps. The long, blue pennant which Dick had discovered in the wheel-house snapped and waved from the pole. Chub said he didn’t know what a blue pennant meant, but that since it looked mighty well they’d fly it. Roy hoped it wasn’t a demand for assistance or a token of sickness on board. They wanted to dip it as they passed Grant’s tomb, white and stately on the crest of the hill, but the halyards had got twisted, and by the time they were righted there was nothing to salute but a dingy little tugboat.

With both tide and wind against her the house-boat made slow progress, and Chub was inclined to be impatient.

“We’ll never get to Ferry Hill this side of Christmas!” he declared. “I vote we name her over, and call her the Slow Poke.”

Dick and Roy applauded instantly. Chub was at the wheel and the others were standing behind him at the open door of the wheel-house, ready with suggestions and assistance, Dick having been dragged away from the engine almost by main force.

“Fine!” said Dick. “Only she’s got Jolly Roger painted on her bow.”

“That’s all right,” said Chub. “Mr. Cole said we could do anything we liked with her. When we get to a town we’ll buy some paint and rename her.”

“It’s a good name,” laughed Roy. “I wonder Mr. Cole never thought of it himself.”

“Maybe he did; she’s had all sorts of names; he said so. Now what’s that little sail-boat trying to do? If she doesn’t look out she’ll get run over.” Chub blew the whistle warningly.

“We’ve got to get out of her way,” said Dick.

“What for?” asked Chub, haughtily. “Let her get out of our way.”

“Law requires sailing craft to give way to dories and such and steamboats to give way to sail-boats,” responded Dick, knowingly.

“Listen to the Ancient Mariner,” jeered Chub. But he pulled a lever that slowed down the engine, and so allowed the sail-boat to bob out of harm’s way. Chub had a chart spread out in front of him, and now and then he pointed out the places along the way with the manner of a discoverer, though Roy said it seemed more like a ride in a sight-seeing automobile.

“Manhattanville on our right, gentlemen. On the left historic Fort Lee.”

“What happened there?” asked Dick.

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know it’s historic?”

“All forts are historic,” answered Chub, loftily. “Across the river are historic Fort Washington and historic Fort George.”

“I suppose the next fort is historic Fort Cherry-tree,” muttered Dick, skeptically. “I don’t see any forts, anyhow. I’m going down again—”

“To throw more oil on that poor old engine,” mourned Roy. “Dick, let me remind you that oil costs money. You’ve already squandered about a gallon.”

“Get out! We only had a quart to begin with. I’m not going to put any more oil on, anyway; I just want to see how she’s working.”

“Dick thinks that if he isn’t sitting beside that engine holding its hand it’ll get mad and quit work,” laughed Chub. “Let him go, Roy, for goodness’ sake!” So Dick climbed over the side and disappeared into the tiny engine-room to sit on a camp-stool with a bunch of dirty waste in his hand and watch the engine fascinatedly.

The departure of the house-boat had been quite devoid of brilliant features. The groceries and supplies had been delivered early, suit cases and other luggage had been brought across town in a cab, and by noon all was in readiness. The boys had returned to the house for an early luncheon and afterward, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Porter and Mr. Somes, had come down to the sea in two bright red taxicabs. The older folks had been shown over the boat and had then stood on the end of the wharf and waved good-by while the Jolly—pardon me, the Slow Poke had been 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.”

“The mischief! That’s no place to spend the night,” said Dick, disgustedly.

“Why not?” Roy asked. “Some folks have to live there all the year round!”

“We don’t have to stop there,” said Chub. “We’ll cross the river and find a nice, quiet spot along the Palisades.”

“And as we’ll have to have some dinner—”

“Supper,” corrected Chub.

“You’d better start about now to get your hands clean, Dick. I never cared for the flavor of cylinder oil.”

“Seems to me,” said Dick, “I’m in for a lot of work. When I signed for this trip I didn’t know I was to be engineer and cook, too.”

“Oh, yes, you did, Dickums. You knew it, but you didn’t realize it.”

“Well, then, you fellows needn’t complain if you don’t get all your meals on time,” answered Dick, morosely.

“No, we won’t complain; we’ll simply throw you overboard. But I think Roy had better take lessons in engineering so that you can have your Thursday afternoons off. Dickums, take him down with you now and give him his first lesson.”

“I want to steer for a while,” said Roy. But Chub shook his head.

“I don’t feel that I can trust you,” he answered. “With all these young lives depending on careful navigation—”

The others howled.

“Considering that you hit everything in sight when we started out,” said Roy, “you’d better—” Chub viewed them scowlingly.

“This sounds to me like mutiny,” he muttered. “Kindly put yourselves in irons.”

Roy spent the next half hour studying “Somes on the Gas-Engine.” Toward six o’clock the Slow Poke chugged across to the Jersey shore and after some discussion a place was selected for anchorage. There was a break here in the rocky wall of the Palisades and a little stream meandered down through a tiny valley. The woods came closely to the river’s edge, and after getting the Slow Poke as near shore as her draft would permit, they carried lines from stern and bow and made them fast to trees. Then all hands set to to prepare supper. Chub established himself on the railing of the after deck and pared potatoes, pausing in his task whenever a boat went up or down the river.

“Say, Dick,” he called, “you ought to bestir yourself to-morrow and clean that oil stove. I can smell it out here.”

“Oil stoves always smell,” answered Dick from the galley.

“Not if you keep them clean. Maybe it needs new wicks.”

“Maybe it does. And maybe if you don’t finish paring those potatoes in the next hour or two we’ll have them for breakfast instead of supper.”

“I like your cheek,” murmured Chub resuming his task with a sigh. “I’m fairly working my hands off out here. What’s that loafer Roy doing anyhow? Why don’t you put him at work?”

“Don’t you worry about him. I’ve got him busy all right,” was the reply. “Say, did we order any salt, Chub? If we did I can’t find it.”

“Send Roy out here to pare these potatoes and I’ll look for it,” responded Chub insinuatingly.

“We’ve found it,” called Dick. “Aren’t you nearly done?”

“Sure; all done; been done for hours.” Chub slid off the railing and bore the potatoes indoors and watched them disappear into the pot of boiling water. Then he and Roy set the table. As each of them had his own convictions regarding the arrangement of knives, forks and spoons there was some confusion for a while. But half an hour later, all differences of opinion were forgotten. Sitting about the table in the tiny after cabin, they had their first meal on board. Through the open windows wandered a little evening breeze which, as Chub poetically remarked, “caressed their cheeks, flushed with the toil of the long day.” On one side the shadowed woods showed, on the other the broad expanse of the river, deeply golden in the late sunlight.

“It’s a perfect shame,” sighed Chub, “to spoil such an appetite as this. I feel as though I ought to keep it and treasure it as something valuable. Pass the ham, Dick.”

“I guess there’s no doubt about our being in New Jersey,” muttered Roy, slapping the back of his neck. “The place is full of mosquitoes.”

“That’s so,” said Chub. “I’ve been wondering what was getting after me so. I thought it was the bite of hunger.”

“I guess it is,” laughed Dick. “The bite of hungry mosquitoes. Say, they won’t do a thing to us to-night. Let’s move on.”

“Pshaw, we’ve got to get used to them sometime and we might as well start now. Mosquitoes don’t pay any attention to you after a while. Where’s the bread gone to?”

“You ought to know, Chub,” replied Dick, rising to cut a fresh supply.

“It’s a funny thing about mosquitoes,” continued Chub, helping himself to half a slice of bread which Roy had left unguarded. “Just you let them bite you a day or two and they get tired of you. I suppose they like a change of diet the same as the rest of us. Is there any more of the excellent tea, Dickums?”

Presently Chub pushed back his chair with a sigh of contentment.

“Come on, Roy,” he said. “Let us go up and sit on deck and watch the pageant of Nature while the hireling cleans up the dishes.”

“No you don’t!” retorted the hireling. “You and Roy will stay right here and help. You needn’t think I’m going to do everything on this blooming boat!”

“That smacks of mutiny, methinks,” said Chub. “What do you say, Roy? Still, I’ll stay and add my feeble assistance. I choose to wipe the dishes.”

Half an hour later they were sitting on the upper deck, their feet on the railing, feeling very much at peace with the world. To be sure, the mosquitoes were somewhat troublesome, but they strove to take Chub’s advice and bear the annoyance philosophically. A white light hung from the flag-pole above the wheel-house and from the after cabin a feeble glow spread itself over the water. They had left a lighted lamp there to fool the mosquitoes.

“They’ll think we’re going to sleep in there,” explained Chub. “And after they’re all on hand, sharpening their bills, we’ll sneak down and close the door.”

“And lock it,” counseled Roy.

“And stuff up the keyhole,” added Dick. “Only thing I’m afraid of, though, is that they’ll eat up all the provisions.”

But after a while Chub was obliged to acknowledge that his plan wasn’t proving entirely successful.

“I guess some of these mosquitoes haven’t seen that light,” he muttered, waving his hands about his head. “Suppose you run down and turn up the lamp, Dick.”

“I wouldn’t venture in there among all those angry mosquitoes for the world!” answered Dick. “They’d just simply tear me to pieces. I wish I had some pennyroyal.”

“I wish you had,” Roy agreed. “I’d borrow some. I wonder why mosquitoes always go for a fellow’s ankles.”

“They go for the biggest things they see,” explained Chub, “which, of course, are your feet. As they can’t bite through leather they tackle your ankles. They never trouble my ankles.”

“No, I suppose they go for your cheek,” retorted Roy. “What are you rubbing your ankles together for, if they don’t bite them?”

“Er—one of my feet is asleep.”

“So am I—almost,” said Dick, drowsily. “What time is it?”

“About half past eight,” said Roy. “What time do we have breakfast?”

“At eight, sharp,” answered Dick, yawning.

“That means getting up at seven,” murmured Chub. “Then I must go to bed at once or I shan’t have half enough sleep.”

“Being on the river certainly does make a fellow sleepy,” laughed Roy. “I suppose we’ll get used to it after a day or two, though.”

“Like the mosquitoes,” said Dick. “I wish I could believe that tale of Chub’s; it would help me to bear my present troubles with more—more—”

“Equanimity,” said Chub, helpfully. “It’s a scientific fact, though, Dickums. Why, after a week or so—”

“You said a day or two!”

“Or thereabouts, the mosquitoes simply won’t look at you. They won’t touch you even if you go down on your knees and beg ’em to!”

“I have a funny picture of myself doing it!” growled Dick.

“I don’t approve of these low expressions you use,” said Chub regretfully. “I suppose you learn them at school. You should choose your companions very carefully, Dickums.”

“I have since you fellows left,” answered Dick with a grin.

For a while the conversation turned to Ferry Hill and the fellows there, but as each of the three evinced an inclination to fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, the talk wasn’t very brilliant or interesting. Finally, Roy dropped his feet with a thud from the railing and stood up.

“There,” he said, calmly.

“Eh? What?” asked Chub, with a start.

“They’ve completed the circuit.”

“Circuit? What circuit? Who’s completed—”

“The mosquitoes have completed the circuit of my ankles. They have been around both and I am now going to bed. I’ve done my duty by them.” Roy stood on one foot and rubbed busily with the other.

“How nice,” murmured Chub. “Something accomplished, something done to earn a night’s repose. That’s me too. Let us go quietly and leave Dick to slumber peacefully on.”

observed Dick.

“Hello! I thought you were asleep!” said Chub.

“I was until some noisy brute awoke me,” complained Dick.

“Where’d you get the poetry?” Roy asked.

“That? I don’t just recall,” replied Dick sleepily. “I think I composed it myself. It was either I or Dryden.”

They stumbled down the steps to the lower deck, Chub begging them to go softly so as not to attract the attention of the mosquitoes in the after cabin, and sought their beds. Chub had the bedroom and the others shared the living-room, Roy using a cot and Dick the window-seat.

“Is everything all right for the night?” yawned Roy.

“I think so,” replied Chub from across the little passage. “I don’t know just what you do on a house-boat when you go to bed.”

“You lock the front door, fix the furnace, and turn down the gas in the front hall,” murmured Dick.

Sleepy as they were, slumber didn’t come to them at once. It was all rather new as yet.

“How’s your divan, Dickums?” asked Chub.

“Fine! I like a hard bed. How’s yours?”

“Great! Good-night.”

“Good-night. Oh, I say!”

“Well?”

“Got any mosquitoes where you are?”

“Have I. Plenty! Want some?”

“No, thanks.” A few minutes later,

“For goodness’ sake, you fellows,” called Chub, “what’s all that squeaking in there?”

“It’s my bed,” answered Roy. “It squeaks every time I turn over.”

“Well, don’t turn over then,” grumbled Chub.

And finally, just when Dick and Roy were on the borderland of slumber, Chub’s voice floated across again.

“Say, Dick!”

“What?”

“Did you let the cat in?”

Then there was peace and silence save for the contented, humming of the mosquitoes.