There was an interval of several minutes, during which the launch coughed, gasped, and volley-fired, while the boatman panted and heaved at the flywheel. Five times the engine started, and five times it stopped with a sob. The man arose from his knees, fumbled about for a candle, lighted it, and examined the gasoline contraption curiously. Then he spun the fly-wheel again, which produced more coughing and another wailing sob of despair.
Miss Chalmers turned abruptly from her survey of the river.
"For Heaven’s sake, prime it!" she snapped.
The boatman twisted his head and regarded her with undisguised astonishment. He not only looked at Miss Chalmers, but he studied her hat, her gown, and her twenty-dollar shoes. He also resurveyed the six trunks. But Miss Chalmers had again turned her attention to the lights upon the river, and was unconscious of his scrutiny.
"That’s a good tip," he observed, after satisfying his eyes.
Whereupon he primed the engine, and the boat buzzed away from the wharf.
Miss Chalmers was but partially relieved in mind when she found herself being borne out upon the St. Lawrence.
The day on the railroad had been hot and cindery, and the train was hours late at Clayton. To cap that misfortune, she had loitered to purchase some stamps and write some telegrams, and arrived at the wharf in time to get an excellent view of the disappearing stern-light of the last regular boat that would stop at Witherbee’s Island that night. It seemed easier to get to Europe, she reflected.
Well out into the American channel, the boatman shifted his helm and headed the launch down-stream. He was smoking again, leaning back comfortably against the coaming, his long legs stretched out so that his feet were braced against the nearest trunk.
Occasionally he glanced at the lights that shone cordially from the islands and the mainland, and now and then paid brief attention to some passing craft; but most of the time he appeared to be studying the back of Miss Chalmers’s head. Several times he smiled, and once his silent reflections brought forth a soft chuckle.
An hour passed. The launch still voyaged in mid-stream, making irregular detours where islands loomed out of the channel. Miss Chalmers extended her hand close to a flickering lantern that stood on the floor of the cock-pit and examined the dial of her wrist-watch.