e wasn't Payne to me. He was Joy. Easy? Why, he fairly pushes me
into it! Digs a white jumper out of a locker for me, and a little
round canvas hat with "Vixen" on the front, and trots back uptown to
buy me a swell pair of rubber-soled deck shoes. Business of quick
change for yours truly. Then look! Say, here I am, just about the
yachtiest thing in sight, leanin' back on the steerin' seat cushions of
a classy speed boat that's headed towards Vee at a twenty-mile clip.

CHAPTER XIII

AUNTY FLAGS A ROSY ONE

Lemme see, I was headed out of Boothbay Harbor, Maine, bound for
Roarin' Rocks, wa'n't I? Hold the picture,--me in a white jumper and
little round canvas hat with "Vixen" printed across the front, white
shoes too, and altogether as yachty as they come. Don't forget young
Mr. Payne Hollister at the wheel, either; although whether I'd
kidnapped him, or he'd kidnapped me, is open for debate.

Anyway, here I was, subbin' incog for the reg'lar crew, who was laid up
with a sprained ankle. All that because I'd got the happy hail from
Vee on a postcard. It wa'n't any time for unpleasant thoughts then;
but I couldn't help wonderin' how soon Aunty would loom on the horizon
and spoil it all.

"So there's a picnic on the slate, eh?" I suggests.

Young Mr. Hollister nods. "I'd promised some of the folks at the
house," says he. "Guests, you know."

"Oh, yes," says I, feelin' a little shiver flicker down my spine.

I knew. Vee was a guest there. So was Aunty. The picnic prospects
might have been more allurin'. But I'd butted in, and this was no time
to back out. Besides, I was more or less interested in sizin' up Payne
Hollister. Tall, slim, young gent; dark, serious eyes; nose a little
prominent; and his way of speakin' and actin' a bit pompous,--one of
them impatient, quick-motioned kind that wants to do everything in a
minute. He keeps gettin' up and starin' ahead, like he wa'n't quite
sure where he was goin', and then leanin' over to squint at the engine
restless.

"Just see if those forward oil cups are full, will you?" says he.

I climbs over and inspects. Everything seems to be O. K.; although
what I don't know about a six-cylinder marine engine is amazin'.

"We're slidin' through the water slick," says I.

"She can turn up much faster than this," says he; "only I don't dare
open her wide."

I was satisfied. I could use a minute or so about then to plot out a
few scenarios dealin' w