He nodded and grinned; and poled, perhaps, the more vigorously. With his foot he desperately prodded the almost exhausted engine.
"Why Les, what's the matter?" she cried. For he was, in truth, a sight.
"Stalled two miles out," he replied bluntly, though not curtly, giving the engine a final kick by way of advising it that its labours for the day were at an end.
"Why, Les—how dreadful! Oh, I can't help laughing. Your face is so funny!"
He made a grimace and rubbed his cheeks with the sleeve of his flannel shirt, not particularly improving matters thereby.
"I don't want the old thing any more—it's just so much junk!" He stepped out on the dock and moored the naughty little craft, though without any great enthusiasm, and rather as though he hoped a strong wind would come and carry the miscreant irrevocably to sea. Then he added: "Hilda, I've got an idea! I'll auction it off and turn over the proceeds to your father's missionary fund!"
Her laugh rang.
"Don't you think that would be a good idea?"
"Oh, Les—you're so funny!"
She laughed a great deal as they walked along together through the hot white sand toward the Crystalia cottages, occupied mostly by Chicago-Oak Park people, and forming no part of what was generally known as the religious colony. Leslie was by this time entirely over his maritime grouch. He conceived, always in his elusively serious way, a delight in being quite as "funny" as he could. An outsider might have registered the impression that, even at his funniest, Leslie wasn't honestly amusing enough to elicit such frequent, rich, joyous peals of laughter; but Hilda was very happy—happy!—so happy that she needed no deliberate stimulus to mirth; so happy she could with the utmost ease shift her mood from grave to gay, or from gay to grave, matching the mood of her companion.