Verona paced up and down the downstairs hall, the mantel clock tucked under her arm. “There must be something we can do,” she muttered. “Something we can do to bring back the wind, to force it to come back. But what?”
“Gang ho!” cried a voice.
“Huzzah!” cried a matching voice.
Out of their bedroom and down the hall tumbled Fritz and Felix Wicklow, the ship’s rope-masters. Verona was the eldest of the Wicklow children, and the twins came next.
“Terrible news,” said Verona. “There’s no wind!”
“Isn’t it brilliant?” said Felix with a big grin. “No wind means nowhere to go!”
“Nowhere to go means everything to do!” agreed Fritz. They each carried armfuls of this and that—fishing nets and coat hangers and ski poles and twine and hammers and all manner of mischief-making equipment.
“We’re going to catch an electric octopus and train it to lurk under Mamma and Pappa’s bed,” chuckled Felix.
“But first we’re going to board up the crow’s nest and make it our Impenetrable Fortress of Death,” said Fritz, and before Verona could say another word they had disappeared up the spiral staircase, hooting and cackling. She heard banging and a loud crash from upstairs, followed immediately by Mamma roaring at them.
“I don’t know why I thought they would be of any help,” Verona muttered.
“They never are,” came a gloomy voice from the engine room at the very end of the hall.
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