“That’s so,” agreed Chub vigorously. “I used to think that an artist chap must be a sort of a sissy; I knew one once: I told you about him, remember? I never thought that sitting down and painting pictures of things on pieces of canvas was a decent job for a full-grown man. But I do now, by jove! A chap must have a whole lot of--of _goodness_, don’t you think, fellows, to do a thing like that picture of Harry?” “I should think so,” answered Roy. “Painting a thing like that seems to me like composing a wonderful poem or writing a fine piece of music, eh?” “You bet!” said Chub. “But I’d rather be a painter than a poet any old day.” “You’re like Harry,” laughed Dick. “She prefers painters to poets, too, nowadays.” “Harry’s fickle,” said Chub. But Harry seemed to be in a strangely chastened mood and paid no heed to their insinuations. After dinner they took her across to the Ferry Hill landing in the canoe. A pile of big purple clouds had formed in the west above the distant hills and already the thunder was muttering along the horizon and flashes of lightning were appearing behind the ragged edges of the clouds. “We’re going to get that sure,” said Dick, who was the weather-wise member of the party. “You’d better hurry back, you fellows.” They did, sending the canoe up-stream with long racing strokes of the paddles. But already the big drops were popping down upon the leaves and a little wind was moaning through the woods as they landed. “No launch sail this afternoon,” said Dick aggrievedly. “No,” answered Roy. “It’s the tent for us, I guess. Wish there was something to do besides play cards and read.” “We can write letters,” suggested Chub virtuously, and the others laughed consumedly. “I tell you what, fellows,” said Dick a moment later, while they were tightening the guy-ropes around the tent. “Mr. Cole told us to come over there whenever we wanted to. Let’s go now. Shall we?” “He said he was going to be busy, didn’t he?” asked Roy. “Yes, but he said before that we wouldn’t bother him. Let’s go!” And Chub tossed his cap into the tent, ready for a dash along the beach. “All right,” said Roy. “We can keep quiet and read. I saw some dandy books there the other day.” “Last man there’s a chump!” bawled Chub as, having already taken a good lead, he darted off toward the beach. The others followed and the three raced along in the rain, which was now coming down in torrents, and reached the _Jolly Roger_ side by side. A door was thrown open and the smiling face of the artist greeted them.