Occasionally he glanced at the lights that shone cordially from the islands and the mainland, and now and then paid brief attention to some passing craft; but most of the time he appeared to be studying the back of Miss Chalmers's head. Several times he smiled, and once his silent reflections brought forth a soft chuckle.
An hour passed. The launch still voyaged in mid-stream, making irregular detours where islands loomed out of the channel. Miss Chalmers extended her hand close to a flickering lantern that stood on the floor of the cock-pit and examined the dial of her wrist-watch.
"How far have we gone?" she demanded.
The boatman studied the shore for a few seconds.
"Oh, seven or eight miles," he answered.
"And you say it's fifteen?"
"To Witherbee's? Oh, all of that."
"You mean to tell me this boat cannot do better than seven or eight miles an hour?"
"She has done better," sighed the boatman. "She did eleven once. But she was new then, and her bottom was clean, and her cylinder wasn't full of carbon, and she didn't leak, and her carbureter didn't have asthma, and she didn't have six trunks on board, and—"
Miss Chalmers interrupted the apology with an angry exclamation.