Dorothy peered over his shoulder.
“That island must be one of those in Jones Inlet. I had no idea we’d gone so far west.”
“All of fifteen miles as a plane flies to Babylon. No chance of making any time until we get into South Oyster Bay which is really the western end of Great South Bay. If we make Babylon by noon, we’ll be lucky.”
“No reason why we should both try to keep awake,” observed Dorothy. “I’ll skipper this craft for a spell. Make yourself comfortable somewhere and go to sleep. You’ll be called at ten o’clock.”
“But you need rest more than I do,” began Bill.
“Oh, I had a snooze on the Mary Jane,” she interrupted, “and got another on the sand this morning. Pipe down, sailor! This is your master’s voice what’s speaking. Excuse the ungarnished truth, but you look like something the cat brought in and didn’t want!”
Bill’s laugh ended in a yawn.
“Aye, aye, skipper. Call me at four bells. Night!”
He went forward and lay flat on the flooring, his head pillowed on his arms. He was asleep almost immediately.
For the next couple of hours Dorothy steered a winding course among low sandy islands and mudbanks. It was impossible to make any speed in these shallow, tortuous waters and she was taking no chances on running aground. It was monotonous work at best. She was deadly tired. There was little or no breeze and the sun, unshaded by the faintest wisp of cloud, fairly blistered the boat’s paint with its fierce heat.