“B-Besides,” said the other, “w-we were d-d-d-desperate.  W-We g-got this f-f-flag—­s-skull and cross-bones, you know that we had on our b-boat, the ‘J-J-Jolly Roger,’ last summer, and we l-l-lit out for W-W-Woodwell’s Wharf to f-f-f-f-fool F-Father.  It was p-pretty f-f-foggy when we got to the wharf, and we s-saw it wouldn’t be s-safe for F-Father and M-M-Mother and B-Betty and Alice and the b-b-baby to go sailing, anyhow.  But there wasn’t any b-boat at W-Woodwells,—­she was over at M-M-Mulliken’s Wharf.  So w-we s-skun around, and g-got aboard, hoisted the s-sail, and s-started down the river.  W-We were nearly out into the b-bay before it struck us that we weren’t on the right b-boat.”

“I went down into the cabin,” said Spike, “and it was all full of bags and things.  Our stuff had gone over—­some of it—­to Big Duck that morning, by the steamer.  And the rest, Father was going to bring down to the wharf in the carriage.  But these bags were marked a lot of strange names,—­Toppan, and Edwards, and so on.”

“T-Tell him about the n-name, S-S-Spike.”

“Oh, yes.  There was a strip of canvas hitched over the stern,—­it had something painted on it in black letters.  I hung over the stern, but I couldn’t make it out,—­because it looked upside down, of course.  So I got out in the tender and read it, and it was ‘Hannah J. Pettingell.’  Then there was another name under that,—­in gilt letters, in the regular way.  That seemed kind of funny, and when I got back on the boat we unhitched the cords and pulled up the canvas sign.  I tried again, hanging over the stern, and spelled out the gilt letters, one at a time.  The name was ‘Hoppergrass.’  We thought there must be some funny business,—­a boat with two names, like that.”

“That’s why the Captain had the crier call it the Hannah Pettingell,” I reflected.

“Well, we knew we were on the wrong boat,” said Spike, “because Captain Bill Prendergast’s is the ’Clara’.”

“B-B-But what could we d-d-d-do?  We didn’t d-dare to go b-back.  If F-Father didn’t l-l-l-lambaste the l-l-l-life out of us, the o-owner of this b-boat would.  We had s-started out to be pup-pup-pirates, and we had m-made a b-b-bully g-g-good beginning, b-by g-g-gum!”

“Say, you don’t own this boat, do you?” asked Spike, suddenly.

“No.”

“Oh, th-that’s too bad!  J-Just think.  If you d-did, n-now we’ve s-s-s-saved you from S-Snider you’d be in a f-friendly f-f-frame of mind, and we could t-turn the b-boat over to you, everything f-forgiven, and no k-k-k-questions asked.”

“It belongs to Captain Bannister, and I wish you’d tell me where he is,” I answered.

“D-D-Do you think you can s-s-square us with B-B-B-Baluster?”

“Ye-es,—­I guess so.”

I did not want to be dismal about it, but my own opinion was that the Captain would be furious.  His boat had been missing now for two days.