"Almost certain, sir. But I'll look again when we get back. Nothing on top of the sideboard had even been touched."
"Well, it's mighty queer; that's all I've got to say. Except that I've a good mind to shoot a couple of dogs to-morrow morning."
"Oh, sir—please—I wouldn't, sir. They'll probably do better next time, sir."
"Next time! How many times do you expect this is going to happen, I'd like to know? I tell you I'll shoot 'em!"
"But they're not mad, sir; and I think—"
"Mad! I know they're not mad, you idiot! But they'll be darn-well provoked if I plump a couple of bullets into 'em."
Miss Chalmers rowed on slowly, her lip curled slightly to indicate her contempt for the conversation. It seemed to her that the evening had furnished nothing save a series of revelations of the incompetence of man. Not a thing that any man had done within her ken that night but she could have performed more efficiently herself, she reflected.
This was the stronger, the dominant sex, was it? With her shoulders she made an eloquent gesture, which was lost upon the night.
Almost at the point of returning to Witherbee's Island was she, when a yell from the shore caused her to turn her head swiftly.
"There he is now, by George! He's got a boat. Run! Head him off, before he gets away!"