that she had submarine blood in her, for in a strong breeze she had a tendency to push her nose down into the water as if she was going right under. But on calm days, when there was a gentle breeze, Fourchette sat in a rocking chair on the verandah of the clubhouse while Donny and the kittens drifted about in the boat. Hops and Malta wore their little green bathing suits and they had old tire tubes, blown up with air, twisted round their waists in case of accident. If they were becalmed the kittens put their fishing lines overboard and hoped for a bite. They rarely caught anything, but they always hoped, and peered eagerly over the stern to watch their painted floats. Donny, who was not much interested in fish, smoked his pipe and watched the sky and looked quite like an old hairy sailor. Sometimes, if the wind failed altogether, he got out the oar and paddled the boat back to the dock. Then the kittens were always excited by the long spinning twirls of silver bubbles made by the blade of the oar in the still water. Fourchette always felt quietly relieved when they got safely back to the dock. In her own thoughts she was doubtful about water and once remarked that there was too much of it about Long Island. Donny said
