"They've
chopped them all up and sold them by the cord for fire wood. I know, for
we bought a lot of it once. It cost dad about ten dollars for express
and didn't burn any different from any other wood. My grandmother--"
Steve groaned. "For the love of lemons, Perry, don't resurrect your
grandmother. Let the poor old lady lie."
"She isn't dead," denied Perry indignantly. "She's ninety-one and a heap
smarter than you are."
"Perry," charged Joe severely, "I distinctly remember you telling us
that your grandmother died of sea-sickness."
"I didn't. I told you she ate lemons and--"
"Died of acid stomach? Oh, all right. I knew she was dead."
"Oh, dry up! She ate lemons to keep from being sea-sick, you idiot. And
if you ate them you wouldn't have to lug around a lot of silly medicine
that doesn't amount to a row of pins. And if--"
"All very interesting," interrupted Phil mildly, "but it isn't deciding
whether we're to stay here or go on. Personally, I think that that
should be up to the captain. If he isn't to decide whether the weather
is right or wrong, who is?"
"That's so," agreed several. "Steve's the captain. What you say goes,
Steve."
"Very well. Then we'll stay here until it stops misting, or, at any
rate, until tomorrow.
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