Rosalind's brain was in a whirl. Sam, the boatman, playing the deaf-mute! She could not even begin to guess a reason.
"He knew where the place was, all right; I'll say that for him," added Reginald. "But it's not particularly entertaining to be cooped up with a dummy in a bum boat for a couple of hours."
"I should imagine not," she murmured.
"But I did the swearing for him, anyhow. And—funny about that, too—he must have understood what I was doing, for he grinned from ear to ear and nodded his head. It must be tough not to be able to do your own cussing."
"I don't suppose it does afford much relief to do it with your fingers," Rosalind agreed. "That is," she supplemented righteously, "if it ever does give one any relief. It's a miserable habit."
"It's not a habit," said Reginald. "It's a vocation, if you do it right. Who's this coming?"
Heavy, deliberate footfalls announced the return of Mr. Witherbee from the meeting of the vigilants.
"Get your burlap?" inquired Reginald pleasantly.
"Burlap?" echoed Mr. Witherbee.
Rosalind interposed hastily.