“Yes,” replied Kennedy, taking his place beside Verplanck, who was seated at the steering wheel. “Walter and McNeill, if you two will sit back there, we’re ready. All right.”
Armand had cast us off and Mrs. Verplanck waved from the end of the float as the Streamline quickly shot out into the night, a buzzing, throbbing shape of mahogany and brass, with her exhausts sticking out like funnels and booming like a pipe organ. It took her only seconds to eat into the miles.
“A little more to port,” said Kennedy, as Verplanck swung her around.
Just then the steady droning of the engine seemed a bit less rhythmical. Verplanck throttled her down, but it had no effect. He shut her off. Something was wrong. As he crawled out into the space forward of us where the engine was, it seemed as if the Streamline had broken down suddenly and completely.
Here we were floundering around in the middle of the bay.
“Chuck-chuck-chuck,” came in quick staccato out of the night. It was Montgomery Carter, alone, on his way across the bay from the club, in his own boat.
“Hello—Carter,” called Verplanck.
“Hello, Verplanck. What’s the matter?”
“Don’t know. Engine trouble of some kind. Can you give us a line?”
“I’ve got to go down to the house,” he said, ranging up near us. “Then I can take you back. Perhaps I’d better get you out of the way of any other boats first. You don’t mind going over and then back?”