"Now if I could only start this confounded engine!" says he, starin' down at it puzzled.
By this time Vee and Mabel appears, and of course Mabel wants to know what's the matter.
"I'm sure I can't tell," says Payne, sighin' hopeless.
"Wirin' all right, is it?" says I, climbin' in and lookin' scientific. And—would you believe it?—I only paws around a minute or so before I finds a loose magneto connection, hooks it up proper, and remarks casual, "Now let's try her."
Pur-r-r-r-r! Off she goes. "There!" exclaims Mabel. "I shall never go out again unless William is along. He's so handy!"
Say, she stuck to it. Four days I was chief engineer of the Vixen—and, take it from me, they was perfectly good days. No more fog. No rain. Just shoolin' around in fair weather, makin' excursions here and there, with Vee trippin' down to the dock every day in a fresher and newer yachtin' costume, and lookin' pinker and sweeter every trip.
Course, as regards a certain other party, it was a case of artistic dodgin' for me between times. You got to admit, though, that it wa'n't a fair test for Aunty. I had her off her guard. Might have been diff'rent too, if she'd cared for motorboatin'. So maybe I got careless. I remember once passin' Aunty right in the path, as I'm luggin' some things up to the house, and all I does is to hoist the basket up on my shoulder between me and her and push right along.
Then here the last morning just as we got under way for a run to Damariscotta, she and Mrs. Hollister was up on the cliff seein' us off. All the rest was wavin'; so just for sport I takes off my hat and waves too, grinnin' humorous at Vee as I makes the play. But, say, next time I looks back she's up on the veranda with the fieldglasses trained on us. I keeps my hat on after that. My kind of red hair is prominent enough to the naked eye at almost any distance—but with fieldglasses! Good night!
It was a day for forgettin' things, though. Ever sailed up the Scotty River on a perfect August day, with the sun on the green hills, a sea breeze tryin' to follow the tide in, and the white gulls swingin' lazy overhead? It's worth doin'. Then back again, roundin' Ocean Point about sunset, with the White Islands all tinted up pink off there, and the old Atlantic as smooth as a skatin' rink as far out as you can see, and streaked with more colors than a crazy cubist can sling,—some peaceful picture.
But what a jar to find Aunty, grim and forbidding waitin' on the dock. She never says a word until we'd landed and everyone but me had started for the house. Then I got mine.