yellower than usual.

"What kind of a game is this?" he asks, brisk. "Where are you going?"

'Twas Jonadab that answered. "We're bound," says he, "for the Bermudas.
It's a lovely place to spend the winter, they tell me," he says.

That poet never made no remarks. He jumped to the stern and caught hold
of the skiff's painter. I shoved him out of the way and picked up the
boat hook. Jonadab rolled up his shirt sleeves and laid hands on the
centerboard stick.

"I wouldn't, if I was you," says the cap'n.

Jonadab weighs pretty close to two hundred, and most of it's gristle.
I'm not quite so much, fur's tonnage goes, but I ain't exactly a canary
bird. Montague seemed to size things up in a jiffy. He looked at us,
then at the sail, and then at the shore out over the stern.

"Done!" says he. "Done! And by a couple of 'farmers'!"

And down he sets on the thwart.

Well, we sailed all that day and all that night. 'Course we didn't
really intend to make the Bermudas. What we intended to do was to cruise
around alongshore for a couple of weeks, long enough for the Stumptons
to get back to Dillaway's, settle the copper business and break for
Montana. Then we was going home again and turn Brown's relation over to
him to take care of. We knew Peter'd have some plan thought out by that
time. We'd left a note telling him what we'd done, and saying that we