“I guess I was wrong about him,” Flash acknowledged. “He’s obliging enough.”
While Doyle returned to the house to talk with Rascomb, he wandered down to the water’s edge.
A loud, clattering sound, not unlike a battery of machine guns all firing at once, caused him to turn his head.
A gray-haired old man in a checkered black and white shirt was testing an outboard motor which had been mounted on a barrel. He shut it off as Flash walked over to him.
“Good afternoon,” the old fellow said pleasantly.
“Been puttin’ this consarned put-putter through its paces. She runs pretty good when you get ’er goin’ but she’s derned backwards about startin’. Guess it’s the ignition.”
“You’re Mr. Fleur, aren’t you?”
“That’s me.”
“You seem to be able to turn your hand to almost anything.”
“Got to, around this place,” Fleur said gruffly. “I look after it for Mr. Rascomb all year ’round. That means bein’ a cook, a mechanic, a guide, a fisherman and general handy man.”