The negro slid off, turtlelike, into the ebb tide and waded out to the boat, which he soon made ready for the trip.
The girl felt for her shark knife, to be sure it was there, and went into the store and got her rifle. "Daddy says for me never to go out without a rifle and a shark knife, as I may need them any time," she explained as I looked on wonderingly.
"He says, with a shark knife, rifle, some 'terrors,' an oxygen tank and a good boat, there is little danger," she volunteered, somehow thinking it necessary to reassure me as we walked to the power boat now ready for us.
The boat evidenced a feminine touch. Painted, varnished, brass shining spick and span, as would the engine room of an ocean liner. Perhaps thirty-five feet over all without a cabin, though there were bunks for two in the bow ahead of the steering wheel protected from the weather by a cowl over which the little girl could just see when standing. The shining, six-cylinder motor, with up-to-date starter and reverse clutch, was in the center at the bottom of an open cockpit extending clear astern, surrounded by seats under which was closed storage space.
"You see," she said, placing the rifle in a convenient leather holster under which hung binoculars, "we used this boat to sponge from for a long time, but since Daddy got the Sprite and gave the Titian to me I have changed it some—and painted it up to suit myself," she added, as the motor sprang into life at her touch. The cutter moved instantly toward the entrance of the little bay and out on the Gulf into a slight head wind.
"Better come up here under the cowl, for she throws a spray after she gets full headway, even if there is no sea," she warned, not moving her eyes from her steering course and glancing occasionally at the compass in the miniature binnacle.
I took a seat on the side opposite her, protected from the spray as the Titian eagerly reached ahead. The craft seemed vitalized by her presence, and sped like the wind over the long swells now coming head-on from somewhere out in the great Gulf.
She charmed me, standing there at the wheel, on the opposite side of the cockpit, receiving the spray on her boyishly cropped hair—a baptismal glory. She was a picture with her perfectly shaped, natural feet, plump but sinuous legs bare to the knees, brown arms, remarkable chest, chiseled nose and chin, and a wonderfully calm, seraphic face, delighted with the exhilaration of motion and speed. Her great thought was that she was performing some big service for the father she loved so much. The picture will remain with me forever.
"How long will it take to get there?" I finally asked, thinking of the possibilities in Bulow and Company's movements. My intuition had flogged me to suspect certain happenings during the previous night, after I had parted from Scotty. Notwithstanding a good night's sleep my suspicions were even yet strong within me, and I actually prayed that results would spare this child from a knowledge of the savagery of the people with whom I was likely to deal.
I was positive that harm was meant to Canby, when and where was the only question. But why did they want him?—why the warrants? Why their visit to his warehouse?—and why their cannon and rifles, and other paraphernalia?