won't win on the deal, will you, Sam?
Say yes, Issy; that's a good feller. He'll give you--I don't know's he
won't give you five dollars."

"Ten," cried Bartlett. "And I'll never forget it, either. Will you, Is?"

A mighty "No!" was trembling on Issy's tongue. But before it was uttered
Burns spoke again.

"McKay's got the best boat in these parts," he urged. "She's got a
tiptop engine in her, and--"

The word "engine" dropped into the whirlpool of Issy's thoughts with a
familiar sound. In the chapter of "Vivian" that he had just finished,
the beautiful shopgirl was imprisoned on board the yacht of the
millionaire kidnaper, while the hero, in his own yacht, was miles
astern. But the hero's faithful friend, disguised as a stoker, was
tampering with the villain's engine. A vague idea began to form in
Issy's brain. Once get the would-be eloper aboard the Lady May, and,
even though the warning note should remain undelivered, he--

Issy smiled, and the ghastliness of that smile was unnoticed by his
companions.

"I--I'll do it," he cried. "By mighty! I WILL do it. You be at the wharf
here at four o'clock. I wouldn't do it for everybody, Sam Bartlett, but
for you I'd do consider'ble, just now. And I don't want your ten dollars
nuther."

Doctoring an engine may be easy enough--in stories. But to doctor a
gasoline engine so that it will run for a certain length of time and
THEN break down is not so easy. Three o'clock came and the problem was
still unsolved. Issy, the perspiration running down his face, stood
up in the Lady May's cockpit and looked out across the bay, smooth and
glassy in the afternoon sun.

The sky overhead was clear and blue, but along the eastern and southern
horizon was a gray bank of cloud, heaped in tumbled masses.

A sunburned lobsterman in rubber boots and a sou'wester was smoking on
the wharf.

"What time you goin' to start for home, Is?" he asked.

"Oh, in an hour or so," was the absent-minded reply.

"Humph! You'd better cast off afore that or you'll be fog bound. It'll
be thicker'n dock mud toward sundown, and you'll fetch up in Waptomac
'stead of East Harniss, 'thout you've got a good compass."

"Oh, my compass is all right," began Issy, and stopped short.
The lobsterman made other attempts at conversation, but they were
unproductive. McKay was gazing at the growing fog bank and thinking
hard. To doctor an engine may be difficult, but to get lost in a fog--He
took the compass from