The Argosy, September 1915 — page 13: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ONE-CYLINDER SAM. the boatman as he gave the last trunk - a final kick into place and reached a hand up for his passenger. Ignoring the hand, Miss Chalmers stepped swift- ly aboard, unaided. ‘Here, boy!” she called, tossing a quarter back upon the wharf. The boy fell upon the coin and was off, The six trunks of Miss Chalmers occupied three-fourths of the cock- pit, so that she found herself crowded far aft, in close and unpleasant prox~ imity to the bearded and greasy-shirted master of the launch. She wrapped her skirt close about her knees—not a very difficult task as skirts go—compressed her lips tightly, and stared out upon the river. There was an interval of several minutes, during which the launch coughed, gasped, and volley-fired, while the boatman panted and heaved at the fly-wheel. Five times the engine start- ed, 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 aston- ishment. 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 re- lieved in mind when she found herself being borne out upon the St. Lawrence. 227 The day on the railroad had been hot and cindery, and the train was hours late at Clayton. To cap that misfor- tune, 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 Eu- rope, she reflected. Well out into the American channel, the boatman shifted his helm and head- ed the launch down-stream. He was smoking again, leaning back comfort~ ably 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 ap- peared 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 midstream, making irregu- lar détours where islands loomed out of the channel. Miss Chalmers ex- tended her hand close to a flickering lantern that stood on the floor of the cockpit and examined the dial of her wrist-watch. “How far have we gone?” she de- manded. The boatman studied the shore for a few seconds. “Oh, seven or eight miles,” he an- swered. “And you say it’s fifteen?” “ ‘To. Witherbee’s? Oh, all of that.” “You mean to tell me this boat can- not do better than seven or eight miles an hour?” “She has done better,” sighed the boatman. ‘ She did eleven once. But she was new then, and her bottom was clean, and her cylinder wasn’t full of carbon, and she didn’t leak, and her carbureter didn’t have asthma, and she didn’t have six trunks on board, and—” EM@PMICLOOOKS (E@)