"I don't know, exactly.Somewhere near the mouth of the bay, that is all I can be sure of.You, are certain you are not hurt? You must be wet through."She got upon her feet and, leaning over the Comfort's rail, gazed about her.
"I am all right," she answered."But don't you know where you are?""Before the fog caught me I was nearly abreast the Point.I was running at half speed up the channel when I heard your hail.Where were you?""I was just beyond your boat house, out in the middle of the bay.
I had come out for a paddle before dinner.I did not notice the fog until it was all about me.Then I think I must have been bewildered.I thought I was going in the direction of home, but Icould not have been--not if you were abreast the Point.I must have been going directly out to sea."She shivered.
"You are wet," I said, anxiously."There is a storm coat of mine in the locker forward.Won't you put that about your shoulders?
It may prevent your taking cold."
"No, thank you.I am not wet, at all; or, at least, only my feet and the bottom of my skirt.I shall not take cold.""But--"
"Please don't worry.I am all right, or shall be as soon as I get home.""I am very sorry about your canoe."
"It doesn't matter."
Her answers were short now.There was a different note in her voice.I knew the reason of the change.Now that the shock and the surprise of our meeting were over she and I were resuming our old positions.She was realizing that her companion was the "common fellow" whose "charming and cultivated society" was not necessary to her happiness, the fellow to whom she had scornfully offered "congratulations" and whom she had cut dead at the Deans'
that very afternoon.I made no more suggestions and expressed no more sympathy.
"I will take you home at once," I said, curtly.
"If you please."
That ended conversation for the time.She seated herself on the bench near the forward end of the cockpit and kept her head turned away from me.I, with one hand upon the wheel--a useless procedure, for I had no idea where the launch might be headed--looked over the rail and listened to the slow and regular beat of the engine.Suddenly the beat grew less regular.The engine barked, hiccoughed, barked again but more faintly, and then stopped altogether.
I knew what was the matter.Before I reached the gasolene tank and unscrewed the little cover I knew it.I thrust in the gauge stick and heard it strike bottom, drew it out and found it, as Iexpected, dry to the very tip.I had trusted, like an imbecile, to Lute.Lute had promised to fill that tank "the very first thing,"and he had not kept his promise.
There was not a pint of gasolene aboard the Comfort; and it would be my cheerful duty to inform my passenger of the fact!
She did not wait for me to break the news.She saw me standing there, holding the gauge stick in my hand, and she asked the natural question.
"What is the matter?" she demanded.
I swallowed the opinion of Mr.Rogers which was on the tip of my tongue.
"I am sorry," I stammered, "but--but--well, we are in trouble, I am afraid.""In trouble?" she said coldly."What trouble do you mean?""Yes.The fact is, we have run out of gasolene.I told my man, Rogers, to fill the tank and he hasn't done it."She leaned forward to look at me.
"Hasn't done it?" she repeated."You mean--why, this boat cannot go without gasolene, can it?""Not very well; no."
"Then--then what are we going to do?"
"Anchor and wait, if I can."
"Wait! But I don't wish to wait.I wish to be taken home, at once.""I am sorry, but I am afraid that is impossible."I was on my way forward to where the anchor lay, in the bow.She rose and stepped in front of me.
"Mr.Paine."
"Yes, Miss Colton."
"I tell you I do not wish you to anchor this boat.""I am sorry but it is the only thing to do, under the circumstances.""I do not wish it.Stop! I tell you I will not have you anchor.""Miss Colton, we must do one of two things, either anchor or drift.
And if we drift I cannot tell you where we may be carried.""I don't care."
"I do."
"Yes," with scornful emphasis, "I presume you do.""What do you mean?"
"I mean--never mind what I mean."
"But, as I have explained to you, the gasolene--""Nonsense! Do you suppose I believe that ridiculous story?""Believe it?" I gazed at her uncomprehendingly."Believe it," Irepeated."Don't you believe it?"
"No."
"Miss Colton, do you mean that you think I am not telling you the truth? That I am lying?""Well," fiercely, "and if I did, would it be so astonishing, considering--considering the TRUTHS you have told me before?"I made no further effort to pass her.Instead I stepped back.
"Would you mind telling me," I demanded, with deliberate sarca**, "what possible reason you think I might have for wishing to keep you here?""I shall tell you nothing.And--and I will not have you anchor this boat.""Is it your desire then that we drift--the Lord knows where?""I desire you to start that engine and take me home.""I cannot start the engine."
"I don't believe it."
For a moment I hesitated.Then I did what was perhaps the most senseless thing I ever did in all my life, which is saying considerable.I turned my back on her and on the anchor, and seated myself once more in the stern sheets.And we drifted.
I do not know how long we drifted before I regained my sanity.It must have been a good while.When I first returned to my seat by the wheel it was with the firm determination to allow the Comfort to drift into the bottomless pit rather than to stir hand or foot to prevent it.In fact that particular port looked rather inviting than otherwise.Any torments it might have in store could not be worse than those I had undergone because of this girl.I sat, silent, with my gaze fixed upon the motionless engine.I heard my passenger move once or twice, but I did not look at her.
