"How can you say he's reliable if you don't know him?" she demanded so imperatively that the boy winced and shuffled his feet.
"Well, he's got a power-boat, and his name's Sam," said the boy defensively. "He ain't ever been wrecked 's fur as I know."
Miss Chalmers made an eloquent and helpless gesture with both arms, then surveyed her light field-equipment—six trunks and a grip.
"Show me the man," she spoke abruptly.
The boy made off in haste, with Miss Chalmers at his heels. He led the way among bales and boxes and barrels, stopping presently under a dim oil lantern set upon a post.
On the string-piece of the wharf sat a man, smoking a pipe. He looked up at Miss Chalmers casually, yet speculatively, then arose and nodded amicably.
"Looking for me?" he asked.
Miss Chalmers was annoyed at the phrasing; never yet had she "looked for" a man. But she swallowed her annoyance.
"I must go to Mr. Stephen Witherbee's island—to-night," she said.
"Yes, ma'am."