“Have a big celebration?” he asked when they entered the pilot house.
“Finest ever,” said Margaret, “but we’re ready to call it a day and start home.”
“Better set down on those benches,” said Captain Billy, motioning toward the leather-cushioned lockers which lined the walls of the pilot house.
The veteran lake skipper leaned out of the pilot house, watching the crowd on the beach. The electric lights flashed on as twilight draped its purple mantle over the lake and the whole scene was subdued. The cries from the bathers were not as sharp, the music from the midway seemed to have lost some of its sharpness and the whole crowd of holiday celebrators relaxed with the coming of night.
Captain Billy glanced at his watch.
“Two minutes,” he said, half to himself as he reached for the whistle cord. Again the mellow whistle of the Queen rang out and belated excursionists hastened aboard.
The ticket seller at the pier head sounded his final warning bell, and there was the last minute rush across the stubby gang plank. Captain Billy signalled the engine room, bells rang in the depths of the boat and the easy chouf-chouf of the twin stacks deepened as the engines took up their work and the Queen backed slowly away from the pier.
Two men who had tarried at the midway too long ran down the pier and yelled at Captain Billy. The skipper picked up his megaphone.
“Sorry, too late,” he shouted. “We’ll be back in two hours.”
“Gosh-dinged idiots,” he grumbled to himself. “Here I wait as long as I can and then they expect me to put back in shore. Not me, by Joe, when I’ve got to make connections with one of them excursion trains.”