The Aydee conformed to the limitations of the nearby yacht clubs and was along the lines of many similar boats that Mr. Tucker had built. She was twenty-one feet load water-line by seven feet and three inches beam, with a free board of twenty-two inches. She was half-decked, had no bowsprit, and carried some five hundred square feet of canvas in her mainsail and working jib. She was painted white, with a single gold line, and bore her name on the stern in brass letters. When, that Monday morning, Arnold and Toby hoisted the creamy-white mainsail and jib and the knockabout, catching the little puffs of air that wandered down over the village hill, moved slowly out of the cove, she presented a sight to gladden the heart of even the veriest landlubber.

Arnold had his first lesson in seamanship that morning. Toby started him at the bottom and made him learn every part of the yacht by name—hull, sails, spars, and rigging—and not until Arnold could tell him instantly which was the peak and which was the clew, and so on, would he advance his pupil. Then Arnold committed to memory the names and purposes of halyards and stays and tackles and sheet, or tried to, very impatient all the time to graduate from such kindergarten lore to the more advanced courses of beating and reaching and tacking. But Toby was a stern master and that morning all the Aydee did in the hour that they were out in her was to float slowly out of the harbor, bob around for a time outside, and then demurely return to moorings at the boat yard. Arnold stayed aboard while Toby made the first trip over to Johnstown with an Armenian peddler as passenger and, sprawled across the stern, rubbed the brass letters to a condition of painful brilliancy.

The lessons continued that day between ferry trips and for many days after, until Arnold could be trusted to sail the Aydee in and out of the harbor without bumping anchored craft or running ashore at the point. I’m not going to tell you that Arnold was an apt pupil, for he wasn’t. Sailing a boat isn’t the most difficult science in the world, but it is a science, and one that Arnold found it hard to master. There were several narrow escapes during that first week, one from capsizing out beyond the Head when a sudden flurry of wind, a squall in miniature, found Arnold, to use his own phrase, “asleep at the switch”! And it was always an interesting moment when Arnold picked up his moorings. Sometimes he did it the first try, but more often he spent five or ten minutes jockeying around, with a hard-hearted and critical Toby sitting idly by with the boat-hook. Once the Aydee ran plumb on top of the town float, and Arnold, gazing disgustedly about and wiping the perspiration from his streaming face, gave it as his opinion that the knockabout was trying to get up to the drug store for a glass of soda! Save that a little lead was scraped from her stem, the Aydee was not damaged. Phebe frequently accompanied them on their short voyages, which so far never extended beyond the inner bay, but she refused, politely enough but very firmly, to set foot on the boat when Toby was absent. The Frolic was only used to take Arnold back and forth from the Head, except when Toby infrequently took her to Johnstown in place of the Urnove. That was only when the passengers were numerous, and happened far too seldom!

It was on a Sunday afternoon, some three weeks after the Aydee went into commission, by which time she boasted a silk yacht ensign and an owner’s pennant and flew them gaudily irrespective of all rules and regulations, that the knockabout met with her first adventure. Perhaps, though, misadventure would be better. Arnold, Toby and Phebe embarked about half-past four for a sail down the bay before supper. The breeze was fair but fluky and Toby counseled the skipper to stay near port in case they were becalmed. But Arnold was too fond of sailing the boat to be satisfied with tacking about the harbor mouth, and so set off on a long reach toward the north shore of the bay. It was a fine afternoon with the glare of the sun intensified by haze. The Aydee slipped along nicely under mainsail and jib and the three occupants of the shallow cockpit made themselves comfortable. There were a good many boats out and Arnold, at the tiller, had just enough to do to keep him busy. The breeze lessened when they were off Franklinville and, at Toby’s suggestion, they came about and stood away toward the end of Robins Island. Five minutes later the breeze died down completely and the sails hung limp.

“It’ll be wooden sails for us, I guess,” said Toby, “if we want to get in before midnight. The tide’s coming and that’ll help some, but if the breeze doesn’t freshen again pretty quick you and I’d better get the oars out, Arn.”

Arnold viewed the flat sea anxiously. “What did it do that for?” he asked. “Just when we were going along so nicely. You don’t mean that we’ll have to row all the way back, Toby?”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it? It’s only about seven miles.”

“Seven mi—say, are you fooling?”

“Not a bit. You needn’t look at me as if it was my fault, Arn. I didn’t swipe the breeze, you know.”

“Of course you didn’t, but say, seven miles—we couldn’t do it!”

“Oh, yes, we could if we took it easy. We’ll have the tide with us. Maybe we can find a tow. If a motorboat comes around we’ll try to get them to pull us a bit. Of course, the breeze may come back. It often does about sunset. But with this haze, I don’t think——” Toby paused and stared across the water toward the south shore. “That’s nice,” he muttered softly.

“What is it?” asked Phebe.

Toby pointed. “Fog,” he said.

The south shore of the bay was fading from sight as a fog bank crept in from the ocean. Even as they looked the last glimpse of land disappeared and, although westward the sun was shining warmly through the haze in the southeast, the world was cut off from vision by a gray pall.

“Get those oars out,” said Toby briskly. “We’d better start along home, I guess. We were idiots to come so far, anyway.”

“A little fog won’t hurt us,” said Arnold cheerfully, as he pulled the two long sweeps from under the seat. “Besides, there’s a breeze, isn’t there?”

Toby glanced at the mainsail and nodded. “A little one, but it won’t amount to much. Put your boom over, Arn, and we’ll try to get what there is of it. You take that side and I’ll take this. Slow and easy, now. Don’t try to do it all at first or you’ll get tired for fair.”

“I’ll take a turn, too,” Phebe volunteered.

“Well, I guess not!” said Arnold indignantly. “If Toby and I can’t get this boat in we’ll stay out all night!”

“Yes, but I don’t want to stay out all night,” laughed Phebe. “And you needn’t think I can’t row. I’ve done it plenty of times. Once Toby and I had to row all the way home from Riverport Neck, and the boat was lots heavier than this one, too.”

“Yes, Phebe can swing an oar all right,” agreed Toby. “Wonder what’s become of all the launches that were in sight half an hour ago. They’ve all cleaned out for home, I guess. Well, they wouldn’t want to tow us much anyway. There comes the fog. We’ll be in it in a minute. I hate fog. It makes you feel so damp and soggy. How’s it coming, Arn?”

“Oh, fine,” grunted the other, pushing heroically at his oar. “How far do you suppose we’ve gone?”

Toby laughed. “About two hundred yards, I guess,” he answered. “We haven’t begun yet.”

“Is that all? Look here, that breeze is pushing us a little. So why not wait until the breeze stops before rowing? Maybe we won’t have to row at all!”

“That breeze,” answered Toby, “isn’t strong enough to move us a mile an hour, Arn. Keep her the way she heads, Phebe.”

Then the fog rolled over them and the last glimpse of the land was lost to view. For a few minutes the sunlight crept through the bank of haze, tinging it amber. Then the amber turned to gray as the fog thickened. From here and there, at intervals, fog-horns sounded and, at Toby’s suggestion, Phebe got the Aydee’s horn out and, turning the handle now and then, evoked a most excruciatingly horrible wail.

“There isn’t much danger of being run into,” said Toby, “for the launches have all hiked for port, but the law says you’ve got to sound your horn. Say, Arn, did you ever get that compass you sent for?”

“No, and we ought to have it, too, eh?”

“Well, it might help, but I guess we won’t need it. Those folks in New York take their time, don’t they? You’d better have bought one here. That breeze is a goner, folks.”

It was. The sails hung motionless. The deck and the oars were damp and slippery now and their clothing was beaded with moisture. Arnold was breathing heavily as he labored at his sweep. The trying feature of it was that, with nothing to measure progress by, they seemed not to be moving at all! The boys became silent at their task. Now and then Phebe, between lugubrious winds of the patent fog-horn, offered a comment, but she seldom got a reply. A quarter of an hour passed, during which time the fog grew thicker, heavier and more depressing, and then there was a sudden exclamation of dismay from Arnold, his feet pattered on the wet planks and they saw him throw himself across the gunwale and clutch desperately for his disappearing oar!

Toby tossed his own oar down and, seizing the boat-hook, jumped to Arnold’s assistance. But already the escaped oar had floated away into the surrounding grayness. Toby silently returned the boat-hook to its place. Then, catching sight of Arnold’s despairing countenance, he broke into a laugh. “Never mind, Arn,” he said comfortingly, “we’ve still got one left, and there’s the boat-hook, too. How did you happen to lose it?”

“It was wet and slippery and—and I guess I was tired,” replied Arnold contritely. “The first thing I knew it was sliding over the side. Gee, but I’m a chump!”

“Oh, shucks, that’s nothing. Cheer up!”

“Couldn’t you scull over the stern, Toby?” asked his sister. “I believe we’d go just as fast.”

“I’ll try it,” answered Toby. “Find a length of rope, Arnold, and I’ll make a lashing. I’ve got to rest a bit first, though.” He sank to the wet seat with a tired sigh. “Running a launch is too easy, sis. It makes you soft.”

“There’s a puff of wind,” said Phebe hopefully. “Perhaps the breeze is coming up again.”

“I wish it would,” said Arnold. “What is it you do when you want a breeze? Whistle, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” laughed Toby. “Try it!”

“I don’t know what to whistle, though.”

“Oh, anything light and breezy,” was the facetious retort. “You might whistle, ‘Where, oh where, is my little oar gone?’ Say, Arn, I’ve just thought!”

“What?”

“Why, how you happened to lose it. You were tired and thought that if you could get rid of it you wouldn’t have to row any more! Didn’t it look to you, sis, as if he sort of pushed it overboard?”

But Arnold was too sore to joke about it yet. The breeze puffed half-heartedly at the sails now and then and swirled the gray fog-wraiths about them, but Toby had little faith in it and soon rigged a lashing for his oar across the stern and tried sculling. It was a difficult and awkward task, for the deck was slippery to even rubber soles, and there wasn’t room to work in. Every time Toby pushed the handle of the oar Phebe, at the tiller, had to duck her head. Finally Toby was forced to give up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but that’s too much like work, and it isn’t doing any good, anyhow. You take this, Arn, and I’ll try the boat-hook.”

“If you do that you’ll swing the boat off her course,” warned Phebe. “We’ll just have to let the tide and what breeze there is look after us, Toby. I guess we’ll get in, finally.”

“That’s about the size of it,” agreed Toby, sitting down again with a grimace at the dampness of the seat. “We’re at the mercy of the elements, folks.”

“Well, I’m glad it isn’t a storm,” said Phebe philosophically. “A fog is horrid enough, but we’re not in any danger.”

“We’re in danger of starving to death,” muttered Arnold dispiritedly. “I don’t see what I ever wanted a sailboat for, anyhow.”

The others laughed. “Oh, you’ll be as much in love with her as ever tomorrow morning,” Phebe assured him. Then, after a moment’s silence, she asked wistfully: “What time is it, please?”

“Ten minutes to six,” answered Arnold. “How’ll you have your steak, Toby? Rare or just medium?”

“Medium, please. I’m glad it’s Sunday, folks. If it wasn’t we’d be hungrier than we are.”

“That’s all well enough for you,” replied Arnold sadly. “You two had a fine big dinner at two o’clock, but we just have a skimpy little lunch at my house on Sundays, and dinner at seven. I’m—I’m starved!”

“You might try to catch a fish,” said Phebe.

“I don’t like them raw, thanks. What’s that row over there, Toby?”

“Fog-horn over at Ponquogue, I guess. I can’t tell, though, for this boat’s turned around for all we know. That may be Robins Island in that direction.”

“But the breeze is coming from the same direction,” protested Phebe, “and I haven’t moved the tiller a bit.”

“Yes, but the breeze feels different to me. It was dry before and now it’s damp. I wouldn’t risk a nickel on the points of the compass at this moment.”

“Then—then how do we know we’re sailing—I mean drifting toward home?” demanded Arnold anxiously.

“We don’t know it. Only thing we know is that the tide is running toward the head of the bay and that we’re going with it. We may fetch up anywhere between Johnstown and the Head. Or we may fetch up on the outer shore of the Head. We’ll get somewhere, though, for the tide isn’t full until nearly ten o’clock tonight. Don’t forget that horn, Phebe. Here, give me a whack at it.”

“I’m getting wet to the skin,” grumbled Arnold when Toby’s effort on the fog-horn had died away. “After this I’m going to be prepared, I can tell you that. I’m going to have a compass, and half a dozen extra oars, and three oilskins, and——”

“How about a gasoline engine with a cunning little propeller stuck out behind?” asked Toby.

“Huh! I wish I had one!”

“If you could wish for just one thing, Arnold, what would it be?” asked Phebe.

Arnold considered for a long moment. Then he answered decisively and with feeling.

“A steak and a baked potato!” said Arnold.