Royal eyed the speaker meditatively. "This trip has got my goat," he acknowledged. "Water's all right when it's cracked up and put in a glass, but—it ain't meant to build roads with. I've heard a lot about this canon and them White Horse Rapids. Are they bad?" When the Countess nodded, his weazened face darkened visibly. "Gimme a horse and I'm all right, but water scares me. Well, the Rouletta's good and strong and I'm goin' to christen her with a bottle of real champagne. If there's anything in good liquor and a good name she'll be a lucky ship."
When they were out of hearing the Countess Courteau repeated: "I don't understand it. They could have gained a week."
"We could, too, if we'd built one scow instead of those small boats,"
Pierce declared.
"Kirby is used to taking chances; he can risk all his eggs in one basket if he wants to, but—not I." A moment later the speaker paused to stare at a curious sight. On the beach ahead of her stood a brand-new rowboat ready for launching. Near it was assembled an outfit of gear and provisions, divided into two equal piles. Two old men, armed each with a hand-saw, were silently at work upon the skiff. They were sawing it in two, exactly in the middle, and they did not look up until the Countess greeted them.
"Hello! Changing the model of your boat?" she inquired.
The partners straightened themselves stiffly and removed their caps.
"Yep!" said Quirk, avoiding his partner's eyes.
"Changing her model," Mr. Linton agreed, with a hangdog expression.
"But—why? What for?"
"We've split," Mr. Quirk explained. Then he heaved a sigh. "It's made a new man of me a'ready."