Having finished her note, she drew in an oar, put the paper flat on the blade, stuck a pin through it to make it firm, then extended it to the waiting and watching man.
Without a word on his part, he got up from his rock seat, and, stretching out a hand, took the slip of paper. Then reseating himself with a slight smile, he produced his own note-book, tore a leaf from it, and took a stylographic pen from his pocket.
“Dear Madam:—I have indeed lost my boat. I accept your offer with gratitude.
“Yours truly,
“Peter Jimson.”
The oar was still resting on the rocks. He pinned his answer to it, saw Berty draw it in, read it, and then she brought her boat round for him.
Still without speaking he stepped in, somewhat clumsily, seated himself, and mopped his perspiring face.
They were not moving, and he looked up. Berty had dropped the oars, and had calmly seated herself on the stern cushions. She had no intention of rowing with a man in the boat.
The Mayor set to work, while Berty lounged on her seat and studied the shell-like tints of the sky. Suddenly she heard a slight sound, and brought her gaze down to the river.
The Mayor was laughing—trying not to do so, but slowly and gradually giving way and shaking all over like a bowl of jelly.