“Hey!” the boat operator shouted as Midge bent to look closely at the mahogany. “What d’you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing,” Midge mumbled, startled. “Just looking.”
“Well, do your lookin’ somewhere else!” the man snapped. “Mr. Manheim doesn’t want kids hangin’ around his boat.”
“I’m not doing any harm,” Midge defended himself. “I was just noticing a few scratches on your boat. Have you been in an accident?”
“No,” the boat operator answered gruffly. “I may have scratched the mahogany a couple of days ago when I was backing out of the berth. Grazed a dock post.”
“Oh, I see,” Midge said, pretending to accept the explanation. “I thought maybe you might have been in a collision last night.”
“Collision! What you drivin’ at, you young whelp? Trying to make out it was Mr. Manheim’s boat that run into your Dad’s sailboat?”
“I didn’t say so, did I? Anyhow, how did you know of it?”
“Heard about the accident here at the club,” the boat operator retorted. “Let me tell you something! This boat wasn’t away from Skeleton Island last night! And another thing, Mr. Manheim doesn’t go around smashing sailboats.”
“Who said he did?” Midge demanded, now on the defensive. “I never accused him.”