fixes it, doesn't it? And it doesn't make any difference which one;
they're equally fine boys, both of 'em. Look at 'em. Did you ever see
better shoulders--better shaped heads--better carriages? Mighty dashed
handsome boys, too, they are--get it from their mothers," he bowed
elaborately to Mrs. Jon Stuyvesant Schuyler and to Mrs. Thomas Cathcart
Blake, then added a look of contempt for, and at their husbands. "Yes,
sir," he went on, "they're fine boys, two of 'em--no denying that. And
she--she's the right sort--no frills, or airs, or bluffs. Sensible,
natural. If I'd have had a few more patients like them, I'd have starved
to death long ago. Why, they didn't have even a single measle--not one
whooping cough out of the lot. Disgraceful!"

In the meanwhile, far out on the sound, the little knockabout was heeling
far over in the playful breath of the summer breeze. Tom Blake, bare-
headed, bare-armed, was at the tiller. Jack Schuyler, also bare-headed
and bare-armed, sat on the after overhang, tending the sheet, and bracing
muscular legs against the swirling seas that, leaping over the low
freeboard, tried to swirl him off among them. Kathryn Blair, leaned
lithely against the weather rail, little, white--canvas-shod feet braced,
skirts whipping about her slender body, rounded arms gripping the wet
edge of the cockpit rail. The gold-brown hair, in loosened strands,
whipped across her tanned cheek; her gown, open at the throat, revealed a
glimpse of straight, perfectly-poised throat; her lips were parted and
her breath came fast in the excitement of it.

Blake held the knockabout to its course, with the confidence of youth in
his prowess, against them. The little boat leaped forward from crest to
crest, stopping between to shake the water from its deck. Above was the
blue sky--all about them the blue water, white crested.