No bullet ever brought a soaring bird to ground more promptly than this
remark brought the Honorable Percival to his senses.

"Gad!" he cried, "but it's impossible! My luggage is all on board!"

He scrambled frantically out of the boat and rushed to his bath-house.
The prospect of being stranded, on even a fairy island, with a
dangerously beguiling maiden of the middle class was even more appalling
than being divorced from his luggage. He struggled frantically into his
clothes, losing three precious minutes over a broken shoe-lace. When he
came out he found Bobby, very cool and collected, sipping an iced drink
at the pavilion. Not waiting for her to finish, he rushed her into the
waiting motor and implored the chauffeur to get them to the dock with
all possible speed.

He was aghast at his own folly. It was incredible that he should have
allowed himself to drift into such an awkward situation. They might not
be missed until after the steamer sailed, in which case it was quite
possible that the erratic captain would refuse to put back. The man
might even make capital of the incident and claim that his daughter was
compromised. What if he should demand satisfaction? What satisfaction
would be due in the circumstances? Percival felt the hot blood rush to
his head.

"Can't you speed her up a bit?" he urged, his elbows on the front seat
and his eyes on the small watch encased in the leather strap about his
wrist.

"Yes, do!" cried Bobby, excitedly. "I love to go fast!"

"Do you realize," asked Percival, assuming his sternest manner in order
to impress her with the gravity of the situation, "that we stand a very
good chance of being left?"

"I can't imagine a nicer place to be left in," said Bobby, adding
between bounces, "besides, you needn't--look so cross--at me. It is all
your--own fault."

The chauffeur at this point felt it incumbent upon him to avert a
quarrel, so he offered the cheering assurance that it was only four
forty-five, and he could get most anywhere in fifteen minutes. But even
as he spoke there was an ominous report, followed by the unmistakable
sound of escaping air.

"Oh, I say!" cried Percival in tones of horror, "not a puncture?"

"That's whut!" said the chauffeur, who had jammed on the brakes, and was
now ruefully inspecting a back wheel.

"Can't stop for that!" cried Percival, impatiently. "Every second
counts, my man. Doesn't matter how much we bounce so long as we get
there."

"B