He rose to his feet. Issy sprang forward and seized him by the arm.
“Set down!” he yelled. “Who's runnin' this boat, you or me?”
The astounded passenger stared at his companion.
“Why, you are,” he replied. “But that's no reason—What's the matter with you, anyway? Have your dime novels driven you loony?”
Issy hesitated. For a moment chagrin and rage at this sudden upset of his schemes had gotten the better of his prudence. But Bartlett was taller than he and broad in proportion. And valor—except of the imaginative brand—was not Issy's strong point.
“There, there, Sam!” he explained, smiling crookedly. “You mustn't mind me. I'm sort of nervous, I guess. And you mustn't hop up and down in a boat that way. You set still and I'll fetch the compass.”
He stumbled across the cockpit and disappeared in the dusk of the cabin. Finding that compass took a long time. Sam lost patience.
“What's the matter?” he demanded. “Can't you find it? Shall I come?”
“No, no!” screamed Issy vehemently. “Stay where you be. Catch a-holt of that wheel. We'll be spinnin' circles if you don't. I'm a-comin'.”
But it was another five minutes before he emerged from the cabin, carrying the compass box very carefully with both hands. He placed it in the binnacle and closed the glass lid.