"He did," chorused the mothers, indicating the worthy seafaring man.

"He said that they would get mixed up." The hostile eyes of the matrons watched Mr. Quince as if suspicious that he might attempt personally to bring about the fulfillment of his prediction.

"Nonsense," shouted Dr. Jackson. "You mothers ought to know your own babies by now, and, if you don't, you certainly know the clothes they have on."

This a.s.surance had a calming influence and quiet was slowly restored.

For a time Dr. Jackson appeared about to reprimand the riverman, but hesitated, probably fearful of again being placed on record.

Mr. Quince perceived the evidences of his personal unpopularity with great coolness. Unabashed, he remarked, "You're gettin' all het up a layin' around here with your kids. There's nothing to it but a heap of sweating. Let's go."

"Wait a minute, please," begged Virginia. "I think that some one else is coming. Won't you blow your whistle, Mr. Quince?"

At this request, real embarra.s.sment descended upon the skipper. After scratching his head reflectively, he went aft to the engine room, or, more accurately, climbed across to the rear barge and entered into conference with Sim. After a period of argument and persuasion, that young man took a slice bar and pounded at the lever of the whistle. A great cloud of steam hissed forth, from the midst of which came a thin wailing note very like in volume those advertising the presence of hot roasted peanuts.

Above the noise came a cry of "Whoa, hold on." Kelly, followed by Mr. Jones, gallantly guarding Miss Knight, lest she inadvertently plunge headlong into the waves below, descended from the bridge. The stenographer was fittingly garbed for the occasion in flannel trousers, silk shirt, serge coat and yachting cap.

"We can go now, Mr. Quince," cried Virginia, making herself heard with difficulty above the roar of escaping steam.

"We hain't a goin' yet awhile," bellowed the commander of the _Nancy Jane_. "The durned old whistle is stuck and a lettin' all the steam out of the old biler."

Dr. Jackson and Kelly repaired to the engine room to inspect conditions.

In a moment the medical man returned, and, procuring his surgical case, hurried back towards the hissing boiler.

"It's de fust time ah evah seed er Doctor called fo' er enjine," Ike told Serena. "Maybe it got de pip."

"It soun' mo'e lak de croup," chuckled Serena.

With characteristic energy, the doctor applied a bandage to the whistle which so confined the steam that Sim was able, with sundry taps of a wrench, to abate "the hemorrhage of vapor," as the medical man termed it.

There followed a pleasant period for friendly conversation, disturbed only by the cries of infants, the sc.r.a.pe of the shovel, and the clang of the furnace door.

During this time, the skipper sat on a box and pensively viewed the slow movement of the needle of the steam gauge. Finally he became energetic. Climbing upon the bank, he cast off the forward hawser of the _Nancy Jane_. Noting the eyes of the pa.s.sengers to be upon him, he a.s.sumed a care free air tinged with a certain dignity, as if the handling of the _Nancy Jane_, a perplexing problem to others, was a trifling matter to him. Likewise, he entered into explanations, ostensibly for Sim's benefit. "I've cast off the bow line. I'm agoin' to let the current swing er out, then we'll start ahead and you cast off that stern line."

Before the eyes of the marveling mothers, Mr. Quince a.s.sumed a position at the extreme front of the boat, on a small deck beyond the railing.

He held the pole across his body, as the balancing stick of a tightrope walker, and watched the current swing the _Nancy Jane_ away from the bank.

Sim waited, motionless as a statue, with a grimy paw on the throttle.

"Let 'er go," sang Mr. Quince, as from the bridge of the _Leviathan_, his powerful voice echoing against the bluffs far up the river.

With much groaning and creaking the engine took up the play of its gearing, and choked down with a grunt as the paddles of the water wheel stuck in the clay bank.

Seizing their babies, the mothers arose and screamed. The infants also gave tongue.

As one man, Dr. Jackson and Kelly sprang to their feet. "Sit down,"

they shouted.

"Is de biler gwine blow up?" Serena asked Ike, nervously.

"Dat ole enjine jes balky. Dat's all," he rea.s.sured her.

In this moment of marine disaster, Mr. Quince displayed great coolness and judgment. "Look out," he shouted to Sim, and leaped ash.o.r.e with great agility. From this position of vantage he commanded, "Stop 'er!"

He then displayed wonderful presence of mind by casting off the stern line. Returning on board, he seized his pole and pushed the _Nancy Jane_ out into the river.

Once more, upon signal, the engine strained and a large chunk of South Ridgefield soil splashed into the river. The relieved paddle wheel caught the water and the _Nancy Jane_ headed up the Lame Moose for Elgin's Grove. Mr. Quince plied his pole diligently, and, exerting his good muscles, shoved his craft into the channel it should follow.

The journey to the Grove was accomplished without notable incident. The sun shone upon the shallow water at such an angle that Mr. Quince was able to view the bottom of the river through the transparent liquid as a pathway stretching before him.

During the voyage the heat was not oppressive, and the infants slept while their mothers enjoyed a restful holiday. This peace was threatened only when an impromptu orchestra consisting of Sim on the harmonica and Ike on a pair of improvised bones showed a disposition to render some of the frivolous airs of the moment for the edification of the ladies.

Elgin's Grove lay cool and inviting as the _Nancy Jane_ stood in towards the sh.o.r.e. The shallowness of the water made it necessary to reach the bank by a narrow gang plank, thoughtfully provided by the steam boat commander. As soon as this was in position, Virginia led the party ash.o.r.e where the farmer cordially welcomed them with the original remark, "Ain't you folks afraid you're lost?" The supplies were landed amidst much boisterous excitement by Kelly, a.s.sisted by Mr. Quince, Sim and Ike.

Mr. Jones escorted Miss Knight ash.o.r.e, bearing her parasol. She joined Dr. Jackson and Virginia, who were making plans for the general welfare.

Suddenly the mill owner's daughter turned to the stenographer and, smiling sweetly, said, "Mr. Jones, may I depend upon you to see that the cots are brought up from the boat?"

Mr. Jones bowed with great dignity. "You will always find me at your service, Miss Dale," he responded, in dulcet tones. The day was rosy to him. The system of exercise, to which Kelly had unfeelingly condemned him, was having its effect. He felt better than he had for years.

Likewise it appeared that his dreams were coming true. That very morning Obadiah had come to him and, in quite the approved manner of addressing private secretaries, saving a certain undue sharpness of tone, had said, "Jones, I wish you and Kelly to accompany my daughter on a picnic which she is giving today. The boat leaves the bridge at ten o'clock, I believe." Now, too, had his employer's daughter, aware of correct usages when private secretaries were about, singled him by name to a.s.sist her. It was of course to be regretted that this picnic was charitable in its nature and attended only by vulgar persons, but from the intimacy of such an occasion, it was but a step to the dances and dinners of his heart's desire.

Filled with joy, Mr. Jones cast aside his coat and ran across the greensward with the grace of a fawn. He shouted for Kelly and Ike, and in a moment had gathered about him the strong men of the party.

He issued his instructions in the terse, certain words of a leader of men. Under his cheery encouragement, cots, with a man at each end, moved rapidly from the boat to their appointed place beneath the trees.

Perceiving the flushed face and the speed of the stenographer's movements, Virginia bestowed upon him a glorious smile of approval and called, "Oh, Mr. Jones, what a help you are to me!"

The private secretary became proud nigh unto the bursting point. He redoubled his efforts, and in a moment all but the last cot was ash.o.r.e.

Kelly uplifted the far end and bawled for aid.

Instantly, Mr. Jones was at hand to seize upon the sh.o.r.e end of the cot.

A leg caught upon a stanchion. The stenographer jerked at it. "Get a move on you!" he commanded Kelly.

"Wait, you cheese! What's your hurry?" retorted the bookkeeper, as he attempted to withdraw the cot from the stanchion to release the leg.

"Come on!" urged the strenuous Mr. Jones, turning and facing Kelly. The leg was freed. "Hustle, you big lobster! Can't you lift your clumsy feet?" persisted the driver of men.

Before this admonishment Kelly advanced with alacrity.

Mr. Jones moved backwards, blindly, but with haste.

"Look out!" sounded Kelly's warning; but alas, too late.

In his hurry Mr. Jones missed the gang plank and plunged backwards from the scow into three feet of mud and water. The screams of frightened women rent the air. A cry for the police arose from Mr. Vivian, while from the lips of that seasoned sailor, Sim, rang that terrifying cry, "Man overbo-o-o-ard."

Mr. Quince sprang into action at the alarm as a fireman at the stroke of the gong. With a mighty leap he landed on the bow of the _Nancy Jane_.

Seizing his pole, he ran along the edge of the barge with the agility of a cat towards the circling waves which alone marked where the private secretary had disappeared. Mr. Quince reached forth tentatively with his pole, as Mr. Jones, having scrambled to his knees beneath the flood, emerged coughing and scrambling from the water.

The head of Mr. Jones came up, the pole of Mr. Quince went down. They met.

"_Wough!_" The stenographer lifted his voice in anguish and seated himself upon the river bottom, his head protruding above the surface of the water.

Undiscouraged, Mr. Quince, with practiced hand, continued to seek for Mr. Jones with the iron hook.