HIT BY A WHALE
"How about a race to the dock, Frank?"
"With whom, Andy?"
"Me, of course. I'll beat you there—loser to stand treat for the ice cream sodas. It's a hot day."
"Yes, almost too warm to do any speeding," and Frank Racer, a lad of fifteen, with a quiet look of determination on his face, rested on the oars of his skiff, and glanced across the slowly-heaving salt waves toward his brother Andy, a year younger.