“Sure she’s gone. Wotcha expect her to do? She’s gotta get over to the other side, ain’t she? Cert’nly she’s gone.” She looked at him interested. “Do you want to be on board her?” 

 “Of course I do.” 

 “Then, for the love of Pete, wotcha doin’ walloping off’n her like a sack of potatoes?” 

 “I slipped. I was pushed or something.” Sam sprang to his feet and looked wildly about him. “I must get back. Isn’t there any way of getting back?” 

 “Well, you could ketch up with her at quarantine out in the bay. She’ll stop to let the pilot off.” 

 “Can you take me to quarantine?” 

 The girl glanced doubtfully at the seat of the nearest pair of trousers. 

 “Well, we could,” she said. “But pa’s kind of set in his ways, and right now he’s fishing for dollar bills with the boat hook. He’s apt to get sorta mad if he’s interrupted.” 

 “I’ll give him fifty dollars if he’ll put me on board.” 

 “Got it on you?” inquired the nymph coyly. She had her share of sentiment, but she was her father’s daughter and inherited from him the business sense. 

 “Here it is.” He pulled out his pocket book. The book was dripping, but the contents were only fairly moist. 

 “Pa!” said the girl. 

 The trouser-seat remained where it was, deaf to its child’s cry. 

 “Pa! Cummere! Wantcha!” 

 The trousers did not even quiver. But this girl was a girl of decision. There was some nautical implement resting in a rack convenient to her hand. It was long, solid, and constructed of one of the harder forms of wood. Deftly extracting this from its place, she smote her inattentive parent on the only visible portion of him. He turned sharply, exhibiting a red, bearded face. 

 “Pa, this gen’man wants to be took aboard the boat at quarantine. He’ll give you fifty berries.” 

 The wrath died out of the skipper’s face like the slow turning down of a lamp. The fishing had been poor, and so far he had 

 Prev. P 26/190 next