“Keep off!” ordered Victor, still fumbling with the rope. “We don't want your help.”
I wasted no breath on him. I addressed my remarks to the girl.
“Miss Colton,” I said, “will you listen to me, please. You can't anchor here because your anchor will not hold. And you can't cross that flat at this stage of the tide. I can give you an oar, of course, but it won't do any good. My oars are too light and small for your boat. Unless you wish to drift back where you were, or beyond, you must let me tow you around the head of this flat.”
I don't know what answer she might have made. None, perhaps; although I am sure she was listening. But Victor, who had succeeded in untying the tow line, cut in ahead of her.
“Mabel,” he warned, “don't pay any attention to him. Didn't your father tell us what he was? There!” throwing the end of the rope overboard and addressing me; “now, you may clear out. We've done with you. Understand?”
I looked at Miss Colton. But I might as well have looked at an iceberg. I slid one of my oars over into the dingy.
“There you are,” I said, grimly. “But I warn you that you're in for trouble.”
I let go of the rail and the boats fell apart. Victor seized the borrowed oar with a triumphant laugh.
“Your bluff wouldn't work, would it, Reuben,” he sneered. “I'll send you the oar and your pay later. Now, Mabel, sit tight. I'll have you ashore in fifteen minutes.”
He began rowing toward the weed-covered flat. I said nothing. I was furiously angry and it was some moments before I recovered self-possession sufficiently to get my remaining oar over the skiff's stern and, by sculling, hold her against the tide. Then I watched and waited.