Leaning even more gently on his oars, Johnny sent his boat gliding forward. Then, of a sudden, he dropped his oars to stare.
“It’s that girl, Rusty,” he whispered hoarsely.
“The same,” MacGregor agreed.
There could be no doubt about it. The girl was bending over to give her flywheel one more turn. Over her boy’s shirt, high boots and knickers she had drawn a suit of greasy coveralls. On her face, besides a look of grim determination, there was a long, black smudge.
“Heck!” she exclaimed once more.
“Havin’ motor trouble?” MacGregor spoke aloud.
The girl started so suddenly that she all but lost her balance. Then, after a brief spell of unbelieving silence, she said, “It’s you, Mr. MacGregor! How glad I am to see you! I’ve been lost for hours. I—I went out to hunt the Shadow, that shadow you know. My motor’s stalled. But now—”
“Now we’re all lost together,” MacGregor chuckled.
To Johnny, the girl gave never a second look.
“Do—do you suppose you could start it?” she said to MacGregor, nodding at her motor.