Joe nodded his head.

“Then tell me about them—­something, anything,” he added as he noted the fleeting expression of doubt in the other’s eyes.

“Oh, that ’s easy,” Joe began valiantly.  To a certain extent he did understand the lad’s hunger, and it seemed a simple enough task to at least partially satisfy him.  “To begin with, they ’re like—­hem!—­why, they ’re like—­girls, just girls.”  He broke off with a miserable sense of failure.

’Frisco Kid waited patiently, his face a study in expectancy.

Joe struggled valiantly to marshal his forces.  To his mind, in quick succession, came the girls with whom he had gone to school—­the sisters of the boys he knew, and those who were his sister’s friends:  slim girls and plump girls, tall girls and short girls, blue-eyed and brown-eyed, curly-haired, black-haired, golden-haired; in short, a procession of girls of all sorts and descriptions.  But, to save himself, he could say nothing about them.  Anyway, he ’d never been a “sissy,” and why should he be expected to know anything about them?  “All girls are alike,” he concluded desperately.  “They ’re just the same as the ones you know, Kid—­sure they are.”

“But I don’t know any.”

Joe whistled.  “And never did?”

“Yes, one.  Carlotta Gispardi.  But she could n’t speak English, and I could n’t speak Dago; and she died.  I don’t care; though I never knew any, I seem to know as much about them as you do.”

“And I guess I know more about adventures all over the world than you do,” Joe retorted.

Both boys laughed.  But a moment later, Joe fell into deep thought.  It had come upon him quite swiftly that he had not been duly grateful for the good things of life he did possess.  Already home, father, and mother had assumed a greater significance to him; but he now found himself placing a higher personal value upon his sister and his chums and friends.  He had never appreciated them properly, he thought, but henceforth—­well, there would be a different tale to tell.

The voice of French Pete hailing them put a finish to the conversation, for they both ran on deck.

CHAPTER XVII

’FRISCO KID TELLS HIS STORY

“Get up ze mainsail and break out ze hook!” the Frenchman shouted.  “And den tail on to ze Reindeer!  No side-lights!”

“Come!  Cast off those gaskets—­lively!” ’Frisco Kid ordered.  “Now lay on to the peak-halyards—­there, that rope—­cast it off the pin.  And don’t hoist ahead of me.  There!  Make fast!  We ’ll stretch it afterwards.  Run aft and come in on the main-sheet!  Shove the helm up!”

Under the sudden driving power of the mainsail, the Dazzler strained and tugged at her anchor like an impatient horse till the muddy iron left the bottom with a rush and she was free.

“Let go the sheet!  Come for’ard again and lend a hand on the chain!  Stand by to give her the jib!” ’Frisco Kid the boy who mooned over girls in pictorial magazines had vanished, and ’Frisco Kid the sailor, strong and dominant, was on deck.  He ran aft and tacked about as the jib rattled aloft in the hands of Joe, who quickly joined him.  Just then the Reindeer, like a monstrous bat, passed to leeward of them in the gloom.