It was the rear of an old-style open roadster. Through the swish of waters his ears caught the sound of hammering on metal.
Feeling his way along the side, he came to a man who was muttering to himself with bitter emphasis while doing things to the engine under the upraised hood.
"Trouble, buddie?" demanded Marlin.
The other jerked up his head so suddenly that it struck the hood. He snarled an epithet; then: "Who the devil?"
"Just a wayfarer," Marlin answered. "Just a wayfarer, buddie, out for a stroll on this beautiful moonlit evening."
"Lay off the comedy!" snarled the other, again diving under the hood. "And get goin' if you can't help."
"Why don't you turn on the lights?"
"Because she ain't got no lights—that's why."
"Battery dead?" asked Marlin. Receiving no answer, he edged back to the instrument panel. As he started searching beneath it for possible ends of disconnected wires, he became aware of a squirming movement under the hand which rested on the seat.
"Take your paws off me, you slimy fish!" came a tense feminine voice. When he made no move to comply, the figure which had been slumped down in the seat became a sudden bundle of fury.