“Look here,” demanded Clarence Conant, recovering his composure, now the greatest of the danger was over. “What—ah—do you mean by talking to me in this fashion?”
“I mean just what I say,” retorted Jerry. “You had no right to take these young ladies out and expose them to such peril.” “The—ah—hurricane took me by surprise,” was the dude’s lame excuse.
“I am very thankful to you, Jerry Upton,” cried Dora Vincent, the oldest and prettiest of the girls on board.
“And so am I.”
“And I.”
“Thank you,” replied the boy, blushing. “But now is no time to talk. Which of you will take the tiller, if I tell you exactly what to do?”
“I can—ah—take the tiller,” interposed Conant, haughtily.
“You won’t touch it!” cried the young oarsman, sternly.
“Why, boy, what do you mean? Do you—ah—”
“Sit down! If you dare to stir I’ll pitch you overboard!”