Speech ceased suddenly as he spied a white object lying under a seat directly in front of him. He reached for it and held it up to the light.
It was a tiny and very thin square of linen, embroidered at the edges. As he brought it close to his eyes he became aware that it exhaled the faintest possible perfume.
"Bless the ladies!" he exclaimed. "One of 'em—I don't know which—has left me a handkerchief. We'll see what can be done."
With careful yet ruthless hands he tore the linen square into four strips of equal width. These he folded once lengthwise. Next he knotted them together, end upon end. The result was, at least in the semidarkness, something that resembled the necktie of a gentleman.
He grinned at himself triumphantly as he fashioned a bow out of the ends, after passing the strip of linen about his neck. There were frayed edges here and there, but they did not count against the general effect. It was a tie!
The boatman rose to his feet and glanced shoreward. Faintly there came across the water the quick, inspiring notes of a fox-trot.
"Time to hurry, I guess," he observed as he slipped forward and set the boat loose from her mooring.
As the Fifty-Fifty edged her way gently to the float he stepped out briskly and made the painter fast to a ring. Not until he reached the head of the gangway did he give a thought to a possible difficulty. Then it was forced upon him suddenly.
"Your ticket, sir," said an attendant deferentially, holding out his hand.
"Ticket?"