There were four persons in the boat. The one at the wheel was a rather rough-looking, bearded man. The others were Mike Lynch, Duncan Ditson, and Harold Du Boise.
Ditson had assisted Lynch in lifting Buckhart to safety. Du Boise, sitting in the stern, stared at the rescued youth with an air of dopey comprehension. Lynch swore, and Ditson expressed his feelings by crying:
“Well, what do you think of that? What the dickens were you trying to celebrate, Buckhart?”
“Just pulled right in front of me,” said the man at the wheel. “Couldn’t help hitting his boat. She’s gone, and he can consider himself mighty lucky that he didn’t go under with her.”
The Texan sat up.
“You lunatic at the wheel!” he roared. “You deliberately ran us down! My pard—where is he? You’ve killed him! You’ve murdered him!”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Lynch. “Was there any one with you in the boat we struck?”
“You know there was.”
“We didn’t see you at all,” asserted Ditson. “We were sitting aft when we heard the crash and felt a slight shock. Even then I didn’t know what had happened. Berger said we’d hit a rowboat.”
“I sprang forward and looked over,” said Lynch. “Saw you clinging to the rail. This is mighty bad business.”