They had gone about ten feet when poor old George slipped out from under Minot and leaped to his feet.
"Hi—Trimmer—it's me—it's George—" he thundered in a startlingly loud tone. Minot put his hand over George's lips, and they locked in conflict. The small launch danced wildly on the waters. And fortunately for Minot's plans the moon still hid behind the clouds.
With a stretch of Tarragona's rank vegetation between them and the Lileth, Mr. Paddock stopped the engine and they stood still on the dark waters. Paddock lighted a cigarette, utilizing the same match to consult his watch.
"Ten o'clock," he said. "Can't say this is the jolliest little party I was ever on."
"Never mind," replied Minot cheerfully. "It won't take Trimmer fifteen minutes to find that his proposition isn't on board. In twenty minutes we'll slip back and look for the signal."
The "proposition" in question sat up and straightened his collar.
"The pater and I split," he said, "over the matter of my going to Oxford. The old boy knew best. I wish now I'd gone. Then I might have words to tell you chaps what I think of this damnable outrage."
Minot and Paddock sat in silence.
"I've been in America twenty odd years," the proposition went on. "Seen all sorts of injustice and wrong—but I've lived to experience the climax myself."
Still silence from his captors, while the black waters swished about the launch.