By turning his
head slightly he could have looked across the sunlit surface of
Buttermilk Channel to the green slopes of Governor's Island and, beyond
the gleaming Statue of Liberty. But Perry Bush was far more interested
in the approach that led from the noisy, granite-paved street behind a
distant fence to the pier against which the boat was nestled. As he
watched he sniffed gratefully of the mingled odours that came to him;
the smell of salt water, of pitch and oakum, of paint from a
neighbouring craft receiving her Summer dress, of fresh shavings and
sawdust from the nearby shed whence came also the shriek of the
band-saw and the _tap-tap_ of mallets. Ballinger's Yacht Basin was a
busy place at this time of the year, and the slips were crowded with
sailboats and motor-boats, while many craft still stood, stilted and
canvas-wrapped, in the shade of the long sheds. Perry whistled a gay
tune softly as he basked there in the warm sunlight and awaited the
arrival of the rest of the boat's crew.
Much had happened since that Thursday when they had toasted the
Adventure Club in Steve's and Joe's room in Sumner. Graduation Day had
sent them scurrying homeward. Then had followed much correspondence with
Steve.
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