On With Torchy Part 35

"Ask Miss Verona if she doesn't want to come up here," says he. "I--I think it will trim the boat better."

"Sure," says I. But when I pa.s.ses the word to Vee I translates. "Mr.

Hollister's lonesome," says I, "and there's room for another."

"I've been wondering if I couldn't," says Vee.

"You can," says I. "Lemme help you over."

Gives me a chance for a little hand squeeze and another close glimpse into them gray eyes. I don't make out anything definite, though. But as she pa.s.ses forward she puckers her lips saucy and whispers, "Pepper!" in my ear. I guess, after all, when you're doin'

confidential description you don't want to stick too close to facts.

Makin' it all stained gla.s.s window stuff is safer.

I goes back to Mabel and lets her demand more details. She's just full of romance, Mabel is; not so full, though, that it interferes with her absorbin' a few eats now and then. Between answerin' questions I'm kept busy handin' out crackers, oranges, and doughnuts, openin' the olive bottle, and gettin' her drinks of water. Reg'lar Consumers'

League, Mabel. I never run a sausage stuffin' machine; but I think I could now.

"You're such a handy young man to have around," says Mabel, after I've split a Boston cracker and lined it with strawb'ry jam for her; "so much better than Tucker."

"That's my aim," says I, "to make you forget Tucker."

Yes, I was gettin' some popular with Mabel, even if I was in wrong with Vee. They seems to be havin' quite a chatty time of it, Payne showin'

her how to steer, and lettin' her salute pa.s.sin' launches, and explainin' how the engine worked. As far as them two went, Mabel and me was only so much excess baggage.

"Why, we're clear out beyond Squirrel!" exclaims Mabel at last. "Ask Payne where we're going to stop for our picnic. I'm getting hungry."

"Oh, yes," says Payne, "we must be thinking about landing. I had planned to run out to Damariscove; but that looks like a fog bank hanging off there. Perhaps we'd better go back to Fisherman's Island, after all. Tell her Fisherman's."

I couldn't see what the fog bank had to do with it--not then, anyway.

Why, it was a peach of a day,--all blue sky, not a sign of a cloud anywhere, and looked like it would stay that way for a week. He keeps the Vixen headed out to sea for awhile longer, and then all of a sudden he circles short and starts back.

"Fog!" he shouts over his shoulder to Mabel.

"Oh, bother!" says Mabel. "I hate fog. And it is coming in too."

Yes, that bank did seem to be workin' its way toward us, like a big, gray curtain that's bein' shoved from the back drop to the front of the stage. You couldn't see it move, though; but as I watched blamed if it don't creep up on an island, a mile or so out, and swallow it complete, same as a picture fades off a movie screen when the lights go wrong.

Just like that. Then a few wisps of thin mist floats by, makin' things a bit hazy ahead. Squirrel Island, off to the left, disappears like it had gone to the bottom. The mainland sh.o.r.e grows vague and blurred, and the first thing we know we ain't anywhere at all, the scenery's all smudged out, and nothin' in sight but this pearl-gray mist. It ain't very thick, you know, and only a little damp. Rummy article, this State of Maine fog!

Young Hollister is standin' up now, tryin' to keep his bearin's and doin' his best to look through the haze. He slows the engine down until we're only just chuggin' along.

"Let's see," says he, "wasn't Squirrel off there a moment ago?"

"Why, no," says Vee. "I thought it was more to the left."

"By Jove!" says he. "And there are rocks somewhere around here too!"

Funny how quick you can get turned around that way. Inside of three minutes I couldn't have told where we were at, any more'n if I'd been blindfolded in a cellar. And I guess young Hollister got to that condition soon after.

"We ought to be making the south end of Fisherman's soon," he observes.

But we didn't. He has me climb out on the bow to sing out if I see anything. But, say, there was less to see than any spot I was ever in.

I watched and watched, and Payne kept on gettin' nervous. And still we keeps chuggin' and chuggin', steerin' first one way and then the other.

It seemed hours we'd been gropin' around that way when----

"Rocks ahead!" I sings out as something dark looms up. Payne turns her quick; but before she can swing clear bang goes the bow against something solid and slides up with a gratin' sound. He tries backin'

off; but she don't budge.

"Hang it all!" says Payne, shuttin' off the engine. "I guess we're stuck."

"Then why not have the picnic right here?" pipes up Mabel.

"Here!" snaps Payne. "But I don't know where we are."

"Oh, what's the difference?" says Mabel. "Besides, I'm hungry."

"I want to get out of this, though," says Payne. "I mean to keep going until I know where I am."

"Oh, fudge!" says Mabel. "This is good enough. And if we stay here and have a nice luncheon perhaps the fog will go away. What's the sense in drifting around when you're hungry?"

That didn't seem such bad dope, either. Vee sides with Mabel, and while Payne don't like the idea he gives in. We seem to have landed somewhere. So we carts the baskets and things ash.o.r.e, finds a flat place up on the rocks, and then the three of us tackles the job of hoistin' Mabel onto dry land. And it was some enterprise, believe me!

"Goodness!" pants Mabel, after we'd got her planted safe. "I don't know how I'm ever going to get back."

We didn't, either; but after we'd spread out five kinds of sandwiches within her reach, poured hot coffee out of the patent bottles, opened the sardines and pickles, set out the cake and doughnuts, Mabel ceases to worry.

Payne don't, though. He swallows one sandwich, and then goes back to inspect the boat. He announces that the tide is comin' in and she ought to float soon; also that when she does he wants to start back.

"Now, Payne!" protests Mabel. "Just when I'm comfortable!"

"And there isn't any hurry, is there?" asks Vee.

I wa'n't so stuck on b.u.t.tin' around in the fog myself; so when he asks me to go down and see if the launch is afloat yet, and I finds that she can be pushed off easy, I don't hurry about tellin' him so. Instead I climbs aboard and develops an idea. You see, when I was out with Eb Westcott in his lobster boat the day before I'd noticed him stop the engine just by jerkin' a little wire off the spark plug. Here was a whole bunch of wires, though. Wouldn't do to unhitch 'em all. But along the inside of the boat is a little box affair that they all lead into, with one big wire leadin' out. Looked kind of businesslike, that one did. I unhitches it gentle and drapes it over a nearby screwhead.

Then I strolls back and reports that she's afloat.

"Good!" says Payne. "I'll just start the engine and be tuning her up while the girls finish luncheon."

Well, maybe you can guess. I could hear him windin' away at the crankin' wheel, windin' and windin', and then stoppin' to cuss a little under his breath.

"What's the matter?" sings out Mabel.

She was one of the kind that's strong on foolish questions.

"How the blazes should I know?" raps back young Hollister. "I can't start the blasted thing."

"Never mind," says Mabel cheerful. "We haven't finished the sandwiches yet."

Next time I takes a peek Payne has his tool kit spread out and is busy takin' things apart. He's getting' himself all smeared up with grease and oil too. Pity; for he'd started out lookin' so neat and nifty.

Meanwhile we'd fed Mabel to the limit, got her propped up with cus.h.i.+ons, and she's noddin' contented.

"Guess I'll do some exploring" says I.