Oh yes," replied Henry Burns. "I've seen 'em do it, haven't you, Jack?"

But Harvey was looking the other way.

They went slowly up the pond, with Mr. Bangs holding the tiller and
watching the sail critically. He was in buoyant spirits, and entertained
them with stories of the thrilling adventures of the Green Pond Fishing
Club, in which he seemed to have figured prominently.

The wind freshened a little and the _Flyaway_ drew ahead somewhat
faster. There was just the suspicion of a ripple along the sides, and it
was pleasant sailing. Two miles up the pond they dropped the sail and
anchored; got out the fish lines and tried for bass. After which, Mr.
Bangs, a generous host, opened up a huge hamper and spread out a
luncheon that made Little Tim's mouth water.

"Nothing like sailing to give one an appetite," exclaimed Mr. Bangs,
heartily. "Pitch in, boys. There's plenty of grub. I believe in having
enough to eat, I do."

He was so busily and pleasantly engaged in eating that he paid no heed
to the aspect of the sky. Nor, indeed, was there anything of very
serious import in its changes. But Henry Burns, alert as ever, saw
certain signs of wind in some light banks of cloud that began to gather
in the western sky, in the direction of Coombs's landing.

"We won't have to row home," he said presently, addressing the skipper
of the _Flyaway_, who was absorbed in the enjoyment of a huge slice of
meat pie.

"Eh, what's that?" he inquired. "What do you mean?"

"We're going to have some wind," replied Henry Burns.

"Well, that's what we want, for sailing," laughed Mr. Bangs. "You aren't
anxious to row, are you?"

"Not particularly," replied Henry Burns. "We won't have to, anyway. It's
going to blow some. We'll take some spray in over the bows beating
back--"

"What's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Bangs. "Augustus, do you hear? Let's start
right away. We don't want to get wet."

"Ho!" sniffed Mr. Bangs. But just then a quick gust of wind swept over
them, such as comes without warning in pond waters, bordered by hills.
Mr. Bangs seemed to take the hint it conveyed. "Guess we'd better
start," he said.

The boys sprang to the halyards; the sails were hoisted and the anchor
got aboard. With Mr. Bangs at the tiller, the _Flyaway_ started on the
beat of two miles down the pond. The wind continued to freshen, coming
now and then in flaws, as the light clouds overspread the sky.

Henry Burns, noting the style of Mr. Bangs's yachtsm