That ended conversation for the time. She seated herself on the bench near the forward end of the cockpit and kept her head turned away from me. I, with one hand upon the wheel—a useless procedure, for I had no idea where the launch might be headed—looked over the rail and listened to the slow and regular beat of the engine. Suddenly the beat grew less regular. The engine barked, hiccoughed, barked again but more faintly, and then stopped altogether.
I knew what was the matter. Before I reached the gasolene tank and unscrewed the little cover I knew it. I thrust in the gauge stick and heard it strike bottom, drew it out and found it, as I expected, dry to the very tip. I had trusted, like an imbecile, to Lute. Lute had promised to fill that tank “the very first thing,” and he had not kept his promise.
There was not a pint of gasolene aboard the Comfort; and it would be my cheerful duty to inform my passenger of the fact!
She did not wait for me to break the news. She saw me standing there, holding the gauge stick in my hand, and she asked the natural question.
“What is the matter?” she demanded.
I swallowed the opinion of Mr. Rogers which was on the tip of my tongue.
“I am sorry,” I stammered, “but—but—well, we are in trouble, I am afraid.”
“In trouble?” she said coldly. “What trouble do you mean?”
“Yes. The fact is, we have run out of gasolene. I told my man, Rogers, to fill the tank and he hasn't done it.”
She leaned forward to look at me.