“Oh,” said Aunt Mary blankly.

“That’s the yacht,” yelled Burnett, “that white one with the black smoke coming out and the sail up.”

“What are they getting up steam for?” asked Clover.  “The time to get up steam is when you get down sails generally.”

“They aren’t getting up steam,” said Mitchell, “they’re getting up dinner.  It looks like a lot of smoke because of the shadow on the sail.  And, speaking of getting up dinner, reminds me that the topic before us now is, how in thunder are we to get up Aunt Mary?”

“Put a rope around her and board her as if she was a cavalry horse,” suggested Burnett.

“I scorn the suggestion,” said their host; “if the worst comes to the worst I can give her a back up, but I trust that Aunt Mary will rise to the heights of the sail and the situation all at once and not make me do any vertebratical stunts so early in the day.”

They were running alongside of “Lady Belle” as he spoke, and the first thing Aunt Mary knew she and her party were attached to the former by some mysterious and not altogether solid connection.

“What do we do now?” she asked uneasily.

“I’ll show you,” laughed Burnett, and seizing two flapping ropes he went skipping up a sort of stepladder and sprang upon the deck above.

Aunt Mary started to emulate his prowess and stood up at once.  But the next second she sat down extremely hard without knowing why she had done so.

“Hold on, Miss Watkins,” Mitchell cried hastily; “just you hold on until I give you something to hold on to, and when you’ve got something to hold on to, please keep holding on to it, until I tell you that the hour has come in which to let go again.”

“I didn’t quite catch that,” said Aunt Mary, “but I’m ready to do anythin’ you say if you only—­” and again she sprang up and again was thrown down as hard as before.

“Look out,” cried Jack, springing to her side; and he got hold of his valuable relative and held her fast while Mitchell grasped the ladder and a sailor strove to keep the launch still.

“Now, Aunt Mary,” cried the nephew, “hang on to me and hang on to those ropes and remember I’m right back of you—­”

“My Lord alive,” cried Aunt Mary, turning her gaze upwards, “am I expected to go alone all that way to the top?”

“It’ll pay you to keep on to the top,” screamed Clover; “you’ll have, comparatively speaking, very little fun if you hang on to the ladder all day—­and you’ll get so wet too.”

“There’s more room at the top,” cried Mitchell, “there’s always room at the top, Miss Watkins.  Put yourself in the place of any young man entering a profession and struggle bravely upwards, bearing ever in—­”

“Oh, I never can,” said Aunt Mary, recoiling abruptly; “I never could climb trees when I was little—­I never had no grip in my legs—­and I just know I can’t.  It’s too high.  An’ it looks slippery.  An’ I don’t want to, anyhow.”