"And I want to
tell you, Big Bear--that as I'm never going to New York again, I've
decided to be an Englishwoman. And you've got to help me."
Merefleet looked at her with undisguised appreciation, but he shook
his head at her words. She was marvellous; she was inimitable; she was
unique. She would never, never be English. His gesture said as much.
But she was not discouraged.
"I guess I'll try, anyhow," she said with brisk determination. "You don't
like American women, Mr. Merefleet."
"Depends," said Merefleet.
And she laughed gaily.
They were drifting in long sweeps towards the south. Imperceptibly also
the distance was widening between the boat and the shore. The wind was
veering to the west.
"My! Look at that oar!" Mab suddenly exclaimed.
Merefleet started at the note of dismay in her tone. He had shipped his
oars. They were the only ones that had been provided. He glanced hastily
at the oar Mab indicated. It had been broken and roughly spliced
together. The wood that had been used for the splicing was rotten, and
the friction in the rowlocks had almost worn it through. Merefleet
examined it in silence.
The girl's voice, high, with a quiver in it that might have stood for
either laughter or consternation, broke in on him.
"Well," she said, "I guess we're in the suds this time, Big Bear; and no
mistake about it."
Merefleet glanced at her helplessly.
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