“Oh, Mr. Tremaine is as sorry as possible about that,” cried the girl. “He told me himself that he’d much rather lose the money than have anything happen to wound the feelings of Mr. Dawson or yourself. He says you are two of the staunchest, most splendid young fellows he ever expects to meet. It seems he knew that our danger in the gale, the other night, was far greater than he let Mrs. Tremaine or myself suspect. He tells us you were both cool, and brave, and that such young men couldn’t be anything but splendid and upright. Mr. Tremaine says he’d cheerfully fight any man who tried to throw doubt over either yourself or Mr. Dawson.”
“That’s fine of him,” said Tom, gratefully, then added, moodily: “Just the same, I wish that affair of the missing money could be cleared up some way. It hangs over me, in my own mind.”
“Then suppose you let me carry your burden for you for a while,” proposed Ida Silsbee, looking at him with laughing eyes. “Only, I can’t promise not to be careless. I might drop the burden over the first stone wall.”
After that the pair chatted merrily enough, while Tom ran the boat along mile after mile, under the soft Florida winter sun. The day was warmer than usual even in this far southern spot.
As the launch glided along they passed small islands now and then, for Lake Okeechobee is well supplied with them.
“Oh, see there! Run in at that island—do!” begged Ida. “See that beautiful moss hanging from that tree. It’s different from any other hanging moss I’ve seen. I’d dearly love to dry some of that moss and take it North with me.”
So Tom ran the launch in under slow headway, reached it, and took a hitch of the bow line around the trunk of a small tree that grew at the water’s edge.
“Now, help me down, as gallantly as you can,” appealed Ida Silsbee, standing in the bow of the boat, one hand resting at her skirt.
“You coming ashore?” cried Tom, almost protestingly. “Oh, Miss Silsbee, I am afraid!”