"Lemme have a try?" says I. With that I stuffs extra cushions around her, folds up a life preserver to rest her feet on, and drapes her with a steamer rug.
"Thanks," says she, sighin' grateful and rewardin' me with a display of dimples. "What is your name, young man?"
"Why," says I, with a glance at Vee, "you can just call me Bill."
"Nonsense!" says Mabel. "Your name is William."
"William goes, Miss," says I; and as she snuggles down I chances a wink Vee's way. No response, though. Vee ain't sure yet whether she ought to grin or give me the call-down.
"Cast off!" says Payne, and out between the rocks we shoot, with Aunty and Mrs. Hollister wavin' from the veranda. Anyway, that was some relief. This wa'n't Aunty's day for picnickin'.
She didn't know what she was missin', I expect; for, say, that's good breathin' air up off Boothbay. There's some life and pep to it, and rushin' through it that way you can't help pumpin' your lungs full. Makes you glow and tingle inside and out. Makes you want to holler. That, and the sunshine dancin' on the water, and the feel of the boat slicin' through the waves, the engine purrin' away a sort of rag-time tune, and the pennants whippin', and all that scenery shiftin' around to new angles, not to mention the fact that Vee's along—well, I was enjoyin' life about then. Kind of got into my blood. Everything was lovely, and I didn't care what happened next.
Me bein' the crew, I expect I should have been fussin' around up front, coilin' ropes, or groomin' the machinery. But I can't make my eyes behave. I has to turn around every now and then and grin. Mabel don't seem to mind.
"William," says she, signalin' me, "see if you can't find a box of candy in that basket."
I hops over the steerin' seat back into the standin' room and digs it out. Also I lingers around while Mabel feeds in a few pieces.