ged it, and
presently she sat shivering in the cockpit, watching the man spill the
water out of the Peterboro till it rode buoyantly again. Then he went to
work at his engine methodically, wiping dry the ignition terminals, all
the various connections where moisture could effect a short circuit. At
the end of a few minutes, he turned the starting crank. The multiple
cylinders fired with a roar.

He moved back behind the wrecked windshield where the steering gear
stood.

"Well, Miss Ship-wrecked Mariner," said he lightly, "where do you wish
to be landed?"

"Over there, if you please." Stella pointed to where the red roof of the
bungalow stood out against the green. "I'm Mrs. Fyfe."

"Ah!" said he. An expression of veiled surprise flashed across his face.
"Another potential romance strangled at birth. You know, I hoped you
were some local maiden before whom I could pose as a heroic rescuer.
Such is life. Odd, too. Linda Abbey--I'm the Monohan tail to the Abbey
business kite, you see--impressed me as pilot for a spin this afternoon
and backed out at the last moment. I think she smelled this blow. So I
went out for a ride by myself. I was glowering at that new house through
a glass when I spied you out in the thick of it."

He had the clutch in now, and the launch was cleaving the seas, even at
half speed throwing out wide wings of spray. Some of this the wind
brought across the cockpit. "Come up into this seat," Monohan commanded.
"I don't suppose you can get any wetter, but if you put your feet
through this bulkhead door, the heat from the engine will warm you. By
Jove, you're fairly shivering."

"It's lucky for me you happened along," Stella remarked, when she was
ensconced behind the bulkhead. "I was getting so cold. I don't know how
much longer I could have stood it."

"Thank the good glasses that picked you out. You were only a speck on
the water, you know, when I sighted you first."

He kept silent after that. All his faculties were centered on the seas
ahead which rolled up before the sharp cutwater of the launch. He was
making time and still trying to avoid boarding seas. When a big one
lifted ahead, he slowed down. He kept one hand on the throttle control,
whistling under his breath disconnected snatches of song. Stella studied
his profile, clean-cut as a cameo and wholly pleasing. He was almost as
big-bodied as Jack Fyfe, and full four inches taller. The wet shirt
clinging close to his body outlined wel