Part 25 (2/2)

”Absurd!” she laughed, placated.

When finally they came to the end of the dock, he paused, considering the three-foot drop to the deck of the motor-boat with a dubious look that but half expressed his consternation. It would be practically impossible to lower himself without employing the painful member to an extent he didn't like to antic.i.p.ate. He met the girl's inquiring glance with one wholly rueful.

”If it weren't low tide....” he explained, crest-fallen.

She laughed lightly. ”But, since it is low tide, you'll have to let me help you again.”

Cautiously lowering himself to a sitting position on the dock, feet overhanging the boat, he nodded. ”'Fraid so. Sorry to be a nuisance.”

”You're not a nuisance. You're merely masculine,” the girl retorted, jumping lightly but surely to the c.o.c.kpit.

She turned and offered him a hand, eyes dancing with gay malice.

Whitaker delayed, considering her gravely.

”Meaning--?” he inquired pleasantly.

”Like all men you must turn to a woman in the end--however brave your strut.”

”Oh, it's that way, is it? Thank you, but I fancy I can manage.”

And with the aid of the clothes-prop he did manage to make the descent without her hand and without disaster.

”Pure _blague_!” the girl taunted.

”That's French for I-think-I'm-smart-don't-I--isn't it?” he inquired with an innocent stare. ”If so, the answer is: I do.”

Her lips and eyes were eloquent of laughter repressed.

”But now?” she argued, sure of triumph. ”You've got to admit you couldn't do without me now!”

”Oh, I can manage a motor, if that's what you mean,” he retorted serenely; ”though I confess there are a few new kinks to this one that might puzzle me a bit at the start. That chain-and-cogwheel affair to turn the flywheel with, for instance--that's a new one. The last time I ran a marine motor in this country we had to break our backs and run chances of breaking our arms as well, turning up by hand.”

The girl had gone forward, over the cabin roof, to cast off. She returned along the outboard, pus.h.i.+ng the boat clear, then, jumping back into the c.o.c.kpit, started the engine with a single, almost effortless turn of the crank which Whitaker had mentioned, and took the wheel as the boat swung droning away from the dock. Not until she had once or twice advanced the spark and made other minor adjustments, did she return attention to her pa.s.senger.

Then, in a casual voice, she inquired: ”You've been out of the country for some time, I think you said?”

”Almost six years on the other side of the world--got back only last spring.”

”What,” she asked, eyes averted, spying out the channel--”what does one do on the other side of the world?”

”This one knocked about, mostly, for his health's sake. That is, I went away expecting to die before long, was disappointed, got well and strong and--took to drifting.... I beg your pardon,” he broke off hastily; ”a civil answer to a civil question needn't necessarily be the history of one's life.”

The girl put the wheel down slowly, swinging the boat upon a course direct to the landing-stage at Half-a-loaf Lodge.

”But surely you didn't waste six years simply 'drifting'?”

”Well, I did drift into a sort of business, after a bit--gold mining in a haphazard, happy-go-lucky fas.h.i.+on--did pretty well at it and came home to astonish the natives.”

<script>