the glass-lidded binnacle by the wheel, and
carrying it into the little cabin, placed it in the cuddy forward.

It was nearer five than four when the Lady May, her engine barking
aggressively, moved out of Denboro Harbor. Mr. Bartlett, the passenger,
had been on time and had fumed and fretted at the delay. But Issy was
deliberation itself. He had forgotten his quahaug rake, and the lapse
of memory entailed a trip to the blacksmith's. Then the gasoline tank
needed filling and the battery had to be overhauled.

"Are you sure you can make it?" queried Sam anxiously. "It's important,
I tell you. Mighty important."

The skipper snorted in disgust. "Make it?" he repeated. "If the Lady May
can't make fourteen mile in two hours--let alone two'n a ha'f--then I
don't know her. She's one of them boats you read about, she is."

The Cape makes a wide bend between Denboro and Trumet. The distance
between these towns is twenty long, curved miles over the road; by water
it is reduced to a straight fourteen. And midway between the two, at the
center of the curve, is East Harniss.

The Lady May coughed briskly on. There was no sea, and she sent long,
widening ripples from each side of her bow. Bartlett, leaning over the
rail, gazed impatiently ahead. Issy, sprawled on the bench by the wheel,
was muttering to himself. Occasionally he glanced toward the east. The
gray fog bank was now half way to the zenith and approaching rapidly.
The eastern shore had disappeared.

"Is! Hi, Is! What are you doing? Don't kill him before my eyes."

Issy came out of his trance with a start.

"What--what's that?" he asked. His passenger was grinning broadly.

"What? Kill who?"

"Why, the big chief, or whoever you had under your knee just then.
You've been rolling your eyes and punching air with your fist for the
last five minutes. I was getting scared. You're an unmerciful sinner
when you get started, ain't you, Is? Who was the victim that time? 'Man
Afraid of Hot Water'? or who?"

The skipper scowled. He shoved the fist into his pocket.

"Naw," he growled. "'Twa'n't."

"So? Not an Indian? Then it must have been a white man. Some fellow
after your girl, perhaps. Hey?"

The disconcerted Issy was speechless. His companion's chance shot had
scored a bull's-eye. Sam whooped.

"That's it!" he crowed. "Sure thing! Give it to him, Is! Don't spare
him."

Mr. McKay chokingly admitted that he "wa'n't goin' to."

"Ho, ho! That's the stuff! But who