Whistler and Al were peeping into the basket. Their delight was
acclaimed at once.

"Good boy, Ikey!" declared Torry, smacking his lips. "You must have
robbed the whole delicatessen shop."

"You don't know my papa," declared Ikey with pride. "He would like to
feed the whole American Navy--that's the way he feels about it."

"He's all right," agreed Torry. "Come on, now, fellows, let's stir
around. The best of the day will be gone soon. Don't worry about your
wet pants, Frenchy. Get up and pump out the bilge. She hasn't been used
for a fortnight, and of course some moisture has gathered."

"'Moisture?' Good-night!" growled the Irish lad, setting to work as he
was told with the tin pump. "I bet I have to sit and do this all day
while you fellows fish."

The engine was only for an emergency. Captain Bridger had told them
that. Gasoline was expensive. So Whistler and Ikey got up the sail, it
filled, and they cast off the moorings. The catboat began to edge her
way out into the cove. There was no rain falling; but fog wreaths rolled
in from the sea.

"Get your scare!" shouted Whistler as he ran back to take the tiller.
"Toot away once in a while. We don't want to stub our toe against some
other craft, and that before we get out of the cove."

"A submarine, for instance?" chuckled Frenchy, soon becoming pacified.
"Ikey's father thinks maybe he might bag one while we're out here."