She approached closer and addressed him. Startled, the man turned sharply and stared.
Instantly, Madge regretted that she had spoken for the boatman was not at all to her liking. He was dressed in dirty white duck trousers and a grimy shirt, but it was his face rather than his clothing that repulsed her. She saw at once that he was of foreign extraction, though she could not have guessed his nationality. His complexion was extremely dark and his straight black hair had not been cut in many weeks. His eyes bore into her with disconcerting intensity.
“I beg your pardon, do you have a boat to rent?” she questioned.
He continued to stare until she thought he would never reply. Then touching his cap, he muttered something, speaking with such an accent that she could scarcely make it out.
“Three dolla’ an hour,” he added indifferently.
“I didn’t want to buy the boat,” Madge smiled. “Perhaps I failed to understand correctly. You said—”
“Three dolla’ an hour,” he repeated, scowling darkly.
“Why, that’s unreasonable. At my Uncle George’s fishing lodge in Canada we rent out boats for all day at less than that.”
The boatman shrugged indifferently and Madge thought for an instant that an expression of relief actually crossed his face.
“That my price,” he insisted. “Maybe you find another boat.”