“No.” Grail shook his head. “That’s the exhaust of a motor boat, if I ever heard one.”
“A motor boat!” scoffed Dennis. “Wid all thim sand bars out there? Sure, there’s a loonytick runnin’ it, thin. W’y, sorr, nobody don’t niver sail motor boats on this river. Th’ boss just had wan iv th’ things shipped in yistedah, he was tellin’ me, but ’tis not on no river he’ll be thryin’ it. He’s goin’ to have it tuk out to Lake Manawa.”
A quick flash shot into the adjutant’s eye at this information, but his tone betrayed only a polite interest.
“So Mr. Schilders is going to have a boat out at the lake this summer, eh?”
“As I tell ye, sorr. An’ sure it may be out there already f’r all that I know. He was dickerin’ wid a felly yisteday afthernoon to haul it out f’r him.”
Grail merely nodded, and turned the conversation to another channel. The chug-chug which had caught his attention had faded away by this time, and there seemed nothing to keep him there, but still he lingered on, chatting with the old watchman.
It might have been observed, though, that he directed an occasional keen glance toward the mists, thinning fast now in the rays of the rising sun, and that when at last the vapors were entirely dissipated, and the river visible from shore to shore, a little frown of disappointment gathered between his eyes. On all the broad expanse of the tawny stream there was no craft of any kind to be discerned. He bade old Dennis good morning, and betook himself back to the post.
TO BE CONTINUED.