A sharp, incisive voice, clear as a bell across the water, reached his quick ears. He turned in the direction of the sound. Out of the gloom came the shape of a large, white launch, passing close, and inbound for the festivities.
"Of course," said the voice in a tone of bored protest, "it will not be necessary to meet—persons in general."
"Not unless you wish to," the voice was answered by another. "We have our own crowd."
"That's something, of course. I hope we shall be able to keep together; I hate a mixture."
Sam smiled and wrinkled his nose.
"Same old master mechanic," he murmured. "Royalty going to watch the peasants frolic."
He watched the Witherbee yacht make the landing, and saw, by the glow of the colored lanterns that bespangled the wharf, a tall, slender figure in white that was not unfamiliar. An instant later it was lost in the crowd.
From the shore came the sounds of a band. The lips of the boatman pursed; he whistled softly. Presently his feet were tapping on the floor of the cock-pit. His shoulders swayed rhythmically to the beat of the music.
"And Reggy—she calls him Reggy—is there," he murmured as the tune faded away. "And the English gink, too. And the child with the fishing-rod. And they'll all be dancing with the master mechanic. Huh! Maybe even Schmidt will horn in, too."
By the feeble light of the lantern that stood on a seat he surveyed his costume and frowned.