Then she gasped, for he stepped on the coaming and plunged overboard in
a beautiful, arching dive. A second later his head showed glistening
above the gray water, and he swam toward her with a slow, overhand
stroke. It seemed an age--although the actual time was brief
enough--before he reached her. She saw then that there was method in
his madness, for the line strung out behind him, fast to a cleat on the
launch. He laid hold of the canoe and rested a few seconds, panting,
smiling broadly at her.
"Sorry that whopping wave put me out of commission," he said at last.
"I'd have had you ashore by now. Hang on for a minute."
He made the line fast to a thwart near the bow. Holding fast with one
hand, he drew the swamped canoe up to the launch. In that continuous
roll it was no easy task to get Stella aboard, but they managed 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.
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